Fifty Shades Brighter
by enchantedink13
Summary: What if Ana realized that what Christian needed wasn't submission? What if she saw that all he truly needed was someone who believed in him enough to challenge him? In which Ana shows Christian that he is capable of being a shade brighter without losing himself.
1. Disguise

**A/N:** This begins canon, but will later become AU. Loosely follows the plot of the first book in the trilogy. Rating may go up in later chapters.

* * *

**Disguise**

Christian had learned very early on the mastery of disguising his own face. In his career it was essential - for all the polished demeanor and professionalism of his employees, he knew that his empire would crumble without his firm leadership, and there was no leeway in business to appear anything but confident and sure. And business was not so different from his personal world of mingling pleasure and pain. As a dominant, his authority over any situation was the only thing that thing kept his submissives safe. If he slipped, if he seemed for even a moment to be less than in perfect control of what was happening, all the signed documents in the world were useless, because without his command, they were just two confused people with no direction. And he knew too well that, without direction, he was dangerous.

His face was a means of persuasion at best, and uncontrolled emotions had no place on it. It was a lesson Christian had learned well in his youth. As a submissive, impassivity was not a convenience, it was a survival skill.

So as his interview ended, Christian kept his expression politely reserved while he walked Miss Steele to the elevator and bid her a safe drive home.

Once the gleaming elevator doors shut behind her, he finally allowed himself to frown. She'd been completely bewildering. On the one hand, she'd had so much poise, returning each of his neutrally crafted remarks with something genuine and astute and unexpected, shocking him into responses that were ridiculously outside the bounds of his usual repertoire of interview one-liners. And yet at the same time, each time she'd glanced down at her notes, something foolish would come out of her mouth, seeming to surprise even herself. She'd been so on edge, so eager to please, and somehow entirely unprepared in spite of what was clearly an effort on her part. Her bold, off-the-cuff commentary had been the only commendable part of the interview, and Christian wondered mildly why she wasn't always conducting interviews instead of the Katherine Kavanagh who'd originally written the questions.

Christian walked back into his office and stared over his desk to the door, unable to believe that not even an hour ago, Miss Steele had been tumbling through it in her own personal whirlwind of disorder and overly probing questions. It was baffling - she'd somehow managed to be simultaneously witty and flustered, eloquent and awkward, righteous and yet painfully bashful.

The phone on Christian's desk rang loudly, rattling through his musings, and he snatched it up impatiently. "What?" His voice was terse, his mind still half on the intriguing enigma that had swept in and out of his office.

"Will you have your next appointment in now?" It was Andrea, and he hissed between his teeth at the interruption.

"Can't you delay? Give him a tour of the offices."

"Very well. Anything else I can do for you?"

Before he really knew what he was asking, he found himself nodding and saying, "Yes, run the name Anastasia Steele and see what you can find about her."

"Steele?" Andrea asked after a momentary pause, her voice hesitant and slightly surprised. Christian paused for a moment, too, appalled at his own careless spontaneity. Under normal circumstances he'd have waited and asked Taylor. Under normal circumstances, _Anastasia_ would be the one seeking him out.

"The young lady who was just here," Christian answered Andrea, impatience biting in his tone.

"You don't usually make a habit of running background checks on your interviewers. _After_ the interview."

Christian rolled his eyes. "I'm making a habit of it now. I trust you can take care of it." He said it as a command instead of a question and hung up before Andrea could answer, leaning back in his chair and clasping his hands pensively in front of his face. He stared at them meditatively and wondered why he was envisioning Anastasia in his playroom. There was nothing about her that had indicated she'd ever _want_ to be in his playroom, surely not when she was smart and fascinating enough to have all of what was in the playroom and more, if she so desired, with someone who was whole and normal and without a set of bizarre personal needs and deficiencies.

The furrow between Christian's brows deepened as he realized that that was the wrong reason to be concerned. What _she _wanted was hardly relevant, she'd be a terrible submissive in any case. She wasn't the type of person who knew how to live without her free will. She obviously questioned everything, and he couldn't afford that, not when he had so many answers that he could never give, not to anybody.

Nonetheless, he couldn't help but replay her insolent words in his mind, spoken so frankly and openly - _Are you gay?_ _-_ and wish that he could reprimand her for it. Not that he'd really been angered by it - on the contrary, her extreme embarrassment immediately afterwards had been quite amusing - but she had dared to challenge him, and it was worth pursuing. Even when intimidated and very obviously nervous, she'd been strong enough to regard herself his equal. And suddenly, it made her irresistible.

The phone blared again, and Christian snatched it up. "Grey."

"Miss Steele's background check is almost empty. She's just a student at WSU. Her GPA's about the most impressive thing on there."

"You can't find anything else?"

"Nothing remarkable."

Christian pinched the bridge of his nose and resisted the urge to growl. There had been nothing about her interview that _wasn't_ remarkable. "I didn't ask for remarkable, I asked for everything. Send it to me. All of it."

"Yes, Mr. Grey."

"Better," he approved, nodding before he placed the phone in it's cradle.

A moment later, he was scrolling through a file of information about her. It was sparsely populated with information, and he was on the verge of acknowledging the lack of useful data when he reached a line titled "Employment."

So she had a job to fulfill when she wasn't appearing to give other people's interviews.

"Clayton's Hardware," he read aloud to himself, tapping a finger against his chin thoughtfully.

The endless possibilities that a hardware store presented came to him unbidden, and Christian smirked slowly, leaning forward in his seat with mounting eagerness. He reached for the phone and dialed the extension for the reception desk. "Andrea? Re-book my flight for WSU's commencement ceremony. I want it earlier." He paused and waited as she rattled off all the events and meetings occupying his schedule in the approaching days. "Make it as soon as you can clear my prior engagements."

"Very well."

"Thank you." This time Christian listened for a moment to her muted surprise at his courteousness before hanging up the phone.

* * *

**A/N****:** Please review! It's my first_ Fifty Shades_ fic, so I'd love to know what you think so far. Thanks for reading!


	2. Numbers

**A/N: **First of all, and most importantly, thank you all _so much_ for the reviews you gave me for the last chapter. It truly means so much to me to see your feedback. Reviews are the best gift a writer can receive, and I loved each one of them, so thank you for that.

Secondly, I begin to allude to Christian's past a bit in this chapter, but I haven't yet read _Fifty Shades Darker_ or _Fifty Shades Freed_, so my apologies if I've taken a creative license that conflicts with the canon story.

* * *

**Numbers**

_The room is dark, made up entirely of shadow. The vertical lines of the legs of tables and chairs are like a grid, blocking him in. The floor is littered with rolled papers, their edges singed, and the grimy concrete beneath it all is cold under his little feet._

_The dark Man is back, and he leans over Christian's mother, who is across the room, on the floor, one of those rolled bits of paper drooping listlessly from her pale, pale fingers. The Man is not much more substantial than a shadow, either, nameless and faceless, but Christian knows him well. He comes two or three times a week, or just once if they're lucky, and Christian knows that he's supposed to bring money, but usually he says he forgot. Christian knows that he hasn't really forgotten, because the Man always has new things and they never do, and he wonders why his mother doesn't see that. Instead, she looks up at the Man standing over her and calls him Baby, and Christian frowns, because she calls Christian that sometimes, too, and he's nothing like the Man._

_Christian looks down at the empty bowl in his hands, and remembers that he had been going to ask Mom for some ramen, before the Man walked in. The Man is also supposed to bring food when he comes, and usually he'll remember to do that. But this time, when the Man reaches into his pocket, he doesn't have money or food, he has a thin foil packet that doesn't look interesting or edible at all._

_It must be something special, though, because Mom's breathing gets louder when he rips it open. The Man waves it in front of her face as if it was important and says, No mistakes this time, and glances at Christian before he bends over Christian's mother, obscuring her from his view._

_Then all Christian can see is their dark shapes moving against each other, and none of it is very clear, but he can hear fabric ripping and a lot of wordless moans, and he'd think that his mother wasn't happy if she wasn't also calling out that word again, Baby, over and over like it was the best thing she'd ever heard. And even though sometimes at night, while Christian's getting tired, she calls him Baby, he knows that right now she isn't talking to him._

Christian jerked awake just as the sound of the woman in his mind reached fever pitch, his eyes wide open, instantly alert. It didn't stop the dream from being cuttingly vivid, each detail precise and sharp and shockingly real. He blinked several times in the dim pre-dawn light of his bedroom, breathing slowly and waiting patiently for his racing heart to slow and his limbs to remember how to move.

In the beginning, it had been horrifying to wake up and find himself paralyzed in flashbacks to the world that he had known as a three-year-old. But the dreams had been regular occurrences for years now, starting soon after Elena had ended their relationship, and Christian had learned to wait out the paralysis, because knowing what to expect gave him the impression of being not quite so much at the mercy of nightmarish shadows that were no longer his reality.

He moved quietly out of bed as soon as he was able to, and padded softly through the silent, empty apartment, to the gleaming piano in the main room, moonlight slotting through the binds and falling in silvery strips across the burnished, glossy wood. He slid the top back and his fingers found the keys, smooth and familiar under his hands, and as his first notes of music rose to quiver in the cool night air, he was home.

He stayed there, at the piano, until morning, and as soon as it was late enough, Christian called the office, relieved when it was Andrea who picked up, instead of the newer reception girl. "Did you arrange my flight yet?"

He heard her nervous breathing on the other end of the line and knew the answer before she recovered herself and replied, "You had a lot of meetings scheduled, I-"

"So, no, you didn't."

"My apologies-"

"I asked you to cancel the meetings."

"I'm very sorry, I-."

Christian rose from the piano bench and made his way back to his bedroom, pulling out clothes and dressing as he interrupted, "You can push back all the PR appointments, we're doing well enough for that. If it's financial, reschedule it whenever possible."

Christian tugged on a pair of slacks and shifted his BlackBerry so that it was clamped between his shoulder and ear while he zipped them and shrugged on a white shirt, buttoning it unhurriedly. He should have known better than to think that Andrea could have managed without specific instruction, and briefly contemplated how easier this would have been if he'd handed it off to Taylor.

Somehow, though, he found himself preferring to do it this way, himself, or at least as close to doing it himself as the CEO of a company ever got to anything. Miss Steele had been so strange, so unlike anyone he'd ever considered, even fleetingly, as a sub, and it seemed only proper that he went about finding her in a way that was equally out of the ordinary.

Christian finished with the buttons on his shirt and took the phone out from under his ear, holding it properly as he cocked his head to the side, listening to Andrea typing on the other end of the line. Finally, the sound of tapping keys ceased and she said, "Okay, you should be clear for the end of this week. Anything else you'd like?"

Christian pursed his lips for a moment, considering what business he could finish in Portland. "Have we had any requests for more funding from WSU for our feed-the-world initiative?"

Andrea's hesitation was audible, and it took Christian a moment to realize that he'd borrowed Miss Steele's choice of phrasing to refer to the hunger project. "_Andrea_," he probed more urgently to regain her focus. "I'm waiting."

He could hear more hurried typing, and he shifted his phone to its speaker setting as he knotted a dark blue tie at his throat. "Yes," Andrea finally answered, "but it's not time for the grant's renewal for another twenty six weeks. Their request was going to be deferred."

"Call them and tell them that I've changed my mind. Arrange for me to visit their agricultural department over the weekend, and let them know that if it looks suitable, they can have the grant money now."

"The budget-"

"Never mind the budget, I think I can spare some funds for a university's good work. Presenting oneself as a good samaritan is smart business." Christian paused and smirked for a moment, allowing his amusement to slip into his voice as, unable to resist, he added, "Don't _you _want to feed the world?"

Andrea's shock was nearly tangible in her silence, and Christian hung up before his laughter became audible.

* * *

Christian had arrived in Portland late on Friday night, and it took him only a little while on the following morning to find Clayton's Hardware, a tiny, family-run place that he'd have never looked at twice if he'd been merely passing by. He walked there, supposing that Taylor's sleek, black car would have been rather too conspicuous, and when the doors of Clayton's slid open to reveal the freshly-cut smell of wood and the dull metallic tinge of tools lying a bit heavier in the air, his eyes ran over the layout of the store quickly, searching for Anastasia's small frame there.

He found her easily, bent over a ledger and nibbling on a bagel with small, delicate bites. He leaned partially behind a tall pile of wooden palettes, taking advantage of her absorption in her work to watch her, and the longer he looked, the more disconcertingly fascinating she became. Christian could understand, at first, why Andrea had called her unremarkable - looking at her briefly, she _was_ plain, nothing like how any of his subs had been - a lot of dark hair that was wrapped into a messy bun, strands spiraling free and sticking out in untidy directions, pale skin that looked almost spooky in the harsh glow from the bare overhead lights of Clayton's, her body not particularly sculpted. _She'll need a physical trainer_, Christian found himself musing, but he stopped the idea before it could progress any further, and looked more closely at her.

She was enchantingly unaware of the world around her, eyes cast down, her lashes long, gaze fixed always on either the paperwork in front of her, or the computer screen next to her. A thin vertical line creased her eyebrows, and as she scribbled notes on her papers, she bit her lip in concentration, seeming unconscious of it. The was a certain grace to her self-sufficiency, the way she carried herself as if she was the only person in her own personal world, and Christian took an unwitting step forward, towards her.

He checked himself and tore his gaze away from her lower lip before he could do anything else unplanned, but just at that moment, Anastasia delicately bushed the crumbs of her barely half-eaten bagel off her fingers and dropped the remainder of it in the waste basket beside her counter, apparently finished. Christian frowned in disapproval and walked out towards her, deliberately this time, deciding that he'd seen enough. She was still absorbed in her ledger when he came up in front of her, and he looked at her intently, appreciative of the moment to observe her at close hand, without her stammering and blushing through attempts at conversation while he did so.

Without warning, her head snapped up abruptly, and Christian suppressed a smile at the wide-eyed shock on her face, too busy being pleased that a touch of eagerness was in her expression, too, mingling with her amazement at his appearance.

"Miss Steele," he greeted her, seeing that she wasn't in a state to speak. "What a pleasant surprise." She was staring, just as forward and unashamed as ever, and Christian met her gaze steadily. He'd intended the line about surprise to be a personal joke, as _she_ was the one who hadn't been expecting their encounter, but somehow he found himself equally surprised, impressed, even, by how she held his attention without even realizing, by simply _being_.

"Mr. Grey," she whispered, and Christian's pupils dilated as he realized that she wasn't even aware of what it sounded like to him, coming from her lips. He grinned at her vaguely, eyes glittering with eagerness as he imagined her voice saying those words in the playroom.

A moment later, though, Christian's businessman side took over his wayward thoughts, and he realized that he was obsessing over a woman - barely more than a girl, really - who'd shown no inclination toward being interested or even able to give him what he needed. "I was in the area," Christian found himself explaining, justifying his not-quite-impromptu visit more for himself than for Anastasia, though she was clearly wondering, too. He was suddenly glad that he'd chosen to schedule business with WSU, giving himself a legitimate - though somewhat contrived - reason to be appearing in Clayton's Hardware. "I need to stock up on a few things. It's a pleasure to see you again, Miss Steele."

Christian's voice dropped an octave as he spoke, and his eyes smoldered at her. _There_, he congratulated himself, _you've told her two things that are at least true_. She shook her head, though, and abruptly Christian was on edge, wondering what he could have done wrong. _Did she know, somehow, that he'd come just to see her?_

"Ana. My name's Ana," she corrected, and Christian relaxed as he realized that that had been all it was. "What can I help you with, Mr. Grey?"

Christian smiled again at how unaware she was of just what he wanted her to help him with, enjoying her increasing bewilderment as he replied, "To start with, I'd like some cable ties."

When she answered, though, her voice was different, inexplicably softer, wavering, and Christian struggled not to frown. She was so fragile, so breakable, so inexperienced. So easy to intimidate, which was dangerous in a situation where everything was tinged with intimidation.

"Shall I show you?" she asked, raising wide, uncertain eyes to him, as if _he_ was the one who worked at the store.

He gentled his voice to her when he encouraged, "Please. Lead the way, Miss Steele." She seemed to struggle with her balance as she made her way around the counter, and Christian remembered how she'd felt under his hands as he'd helped her up from the doorway of his office at their interview. She'd been soft. Pliant. And yet, in spite of that, she'd brushed away his attempts at chivalry and scrambled to her feet on her own.

In the meantime, Anastasia had made it around the counter to him without falling over herself, and she brushed her hands self-consciously over her jeans, looking up at him anxiously. Christian's frown deepened as the constant backdrop of why he was there with her now, what he wanted from her, marred his reflection on her. "After you," he coaxed her, gesturing for her to move ahead of him, as he guided his thoughts back to the present. He'd take care of all the overwhelming complications later. For the moment, getting cable ties was at least manageable.

Anastasia did as he bid, seeming to become marginally more sure of herself as they moved toward aisle eight, and Christian relaxed slightly, too, as he saw that he could at least put her a bit more at ease. It was a role he was accustomed to taking, as a dominant. Guiding his subs, even when it was their world, really, that they were in. This was no different, and when Anastasia asked, "Are you in Portland on business?" Christian smirked to think that she'd recovered her nosiness.

"I was visiting the WSU farming division," he explained. Peering closely at Anastasia, her saw the corners of her mouth turn down, as if disappointed, so he kept talking, because making conversation herself seemed to fluster her. He told her about the funding systematically, listing off the facts and hoping that, if not interesting her, they were at least giving her the relief of not having to talk.

When he stopped and looked at her, she was grinning up at him mischievously, her eyes twinkling. _Success._ "All part of your feed-the-world plan?" she asked wickedly.

"Something like that." Christian grinned at her in return, and marveled at how she took the gravity out of a situation, how she made everything easy and funny and effortless.

They reached the section for cable ties, and Christian stopped next to Anastasia, looking over the varied collection of them. Doing this was familiar, but he'd never before gone shopping for playroom supplies with the woman that he hoped to use them with. There was a certain relish in selecting the cable ties when Anastasia was right there behind him, watching closely enough for him to feel her gaze on his back.

She looked away, finally, and Christian chose a packet of plain, standard, white ones, hurrying himself along as her apparent interest faded. Choosing the rest of the items he needed was strangely gratifying as well, far more so than when Taylor purchased them and delivered them to the apartment.

Christian followed Anastasia through the aisles of the store in tense anticipation, even though it seemed unlikely that he'd be able to use the cable ties or any of the rest of it with her any time soon - she was entirely unaware of her allure or his intentions as she brought him to the masking tape section and made innocent conversation about redecorating.

Her obliviousness was refreshing, so different from the submissives who knew already exactly what they were good at, and exactly what he expected of them. Anastasia was full of surprises. He'd never found such modesty in anyone who wasn't using it to play hard-to-get.

They arrived at the different types of rope, and Christian watched Anastasia hungrily as she drew a Stanley knife from the back pocket of her jeans. He was used to liking his submissives in silk or satin or, better yet, tight black leather, but somehow he didn't desire Anastasia to be anything different than what she was here, in a hardware store, wearing jeans that were well-fitting but by no means designer, cutting off a section of rope for him and then sliding the blade of her knife shut with a click that make his nerves tingle.

"Were you a Girl Scout?" he asked, needing to distract himself and remind himself how young she was, how inexperienced.

"Organized group activities aren't really my thing, Mr. Grey." She said it matter-of-factly, as if wasn't odd for someone like her to shun society.

"What is your thing, Anastasia?" Christian's voice dropped, soft and low, meaning so much more than what he was sure she'd hear it as asking. It seemed so unlikely that her answer could ever be close to what _his_ thing was, and yet it made her no less intriguing. Somehow, this time, with her, their differences could be set aside temporarily. She'd be worth the wait, he was sure of that.

"Books," Anastasia whispered, her eyes widening, as if the single word, like his question, was very different from what she was actually thinking.

Christian's mouth quirked up into a curious smile as yet another part of her came into focus, making more sense as he went along. It seemed to suit her. "What kind of books?"

"Oh, you know. The usual. The classics. British literature, mainly."

_As if that, like anything else about you, is usual,_ Christian wanted to say. Instead, he rubbed his chin thoughtfully, wondering how long she'd allow him to stare at her in the middle of a hardware store.

"Anything else you need?" _Not long enough_.

"I don't know. What would you recommend?" he stalled.

She hesitated, her brow furrowing in confusion and something that looking a bit like impatience.

Christian kept his silence, wondering what conclusion she'd reach, and finally she asked slowly, "For a do-it-yourselfer?"

Christian smirked, because he certainly was that, though not in the way she meant it. He nodded, waiting.

"Coveralls."

It took the majority of his restraint to not burst out laughing at that. She was, if nothing else, dependable to provide the unexpected. Keeping his amusement coiled in a knot of silent laughter in his belly, he raised a curious eyebrow at her.

"You wouldn't want to ruin your clothing," she elaborated, as if it should have been perfectly logical to him, gesturing up and down the length of his jeans.

Christian smirked at her innocence. "I could always take them off."

"Um." She flushed, and again it was difficult not to laugh at her ineloquence, especially in the context of what he really wanted the supplies for.

"I'll take some coveralls," Christian said, taking pity on her discomfort. "Heaven forbid I should ruin any clothing." _They can be donated to some place that needs them_, Christian reminded himself silently as she chose a navy blue pair for him.

"Do you need anything else?"

And there it was again, his reluctance to leave. He was getting nothing from this, and yet the prospect of leaving her indefinitely - possibly until her graduation - was unappealing. "How's the article coming along?" he asked instead of answering her. This, at least, he was genuinely curious about.

The tension left Anastasia's face, leaving her much improved, and she answered easily, seeming to enjoy talking about writing and about Miss Kavanagh. "Her only concern is that she doesn't have any original photographs of you," Anastasia finished.

It was an opportunity, and Christian restrained himself from seizing it immediately. "What sort of photographs does she want?" he asked, carefully businesslike.

Anastasia shook her head, moving from confident and at ease to daunted in the space of such a simple question.

"Well, I'm around," Christian said, taking the lead again in the face of her uncertainly. "Tomorrow, perhaps…" he trailed off, deliberately allowing her to receive the offer however she pleased. She wasn't his submissive, after all, _not yet_.

"You'd be willing to do a photo shoot?" she asked, sounding overly incredulous and surprised, and Christian made a mental note to come off as less uncooperative in future interviews. "Kate will be delighted!" Anastasia was continuing, babbling on with uncontained enthusiasm.

She looked up at Christian, her face alight, more relaxed and open than he'd ever seen it, her eyes eager and sparkling and full of a joy that was surprisingly intense, and she was breathtaking. Christian froze and forgot everything else - his purchases, the playroom, even the paperwork he'd need before he could think of her like _that_ - and there was only her. Suddenly the events of the past week caught up to him at once, and he realized that he was, for the first time in his life, pursuing a woman. A beautiful, intelligent woman who knew nothing about him, nothing about how passionately he'd learned to want things, and how little of himself he had to give in return. A woman who was strong and bold and who needed nothing - yet one that he was following as if he needed _her._

A woman who was looking at him expectantly and waiting.

"Let me know about tomorrow," Christian recovered himself, still a little less brisk than he'd like to be as he withdrew a business card from his wallet and handed it to her.

"Okay."

She grinned up at him as she accepted the card, and Christian couldn't help but smile back as he realized that this was what a normal person would consider to be giving a woman his number.

* * *

**A/N:** Thanks for reading, I hope you liked the chapter! My real life is getting a bit busy, so I might not be able to write the next chapter as soon as I'd like. I'll update as soon as I can, I promise. Please review!


	3. Terms

**Terms**

Christian was not a man who paced, because he'd learned long ago that stillness was a far safer and more private way to think. But now, as he leaned forward in his chair and impatiently rubbed a hand across the stubble along his jaw, it took restraint not to fidget. It was late in the evening, and he'd had time to visit WSU's agricultural department, sign off on the grant money they'd wanted, make business calls, and have dinner, and now there was little left to occupy himself with.

Just when he doubted that he could sit still any longer, there was a quick knock on the door, and Christian sprang up eagerly to get to it,

"John," he greeted the older, blonde man waiting in the hallway. "Thank you for making the trip down on such short notice."

"It's not a problem, Christian," John assured him. "You certainly compensate me well for my willingness."

Christian stood back to let Dr. Flynn enter and watched him rub his hands against each other briskly, as if he was relishing the entire process, before taking a seat without being asked and gesturing for Christian to do the same. Somehow, John's presence commanded a room, even when it was somebody else's hotel room.

"What can I do for you today, Christian?" John asked, smiling warmly in a way that made Christian question how psychologists could possibly have the patience to look that welcomingly at every strange, messed-up patient who came their way.

"I came here to see Anastasia. To Portland." Christian said shortly, disliking the weakness in the words as he said them.

"I assumed so much," John said, pressing his lips together as if amused. Christian scowled across at him, thinking that, if this was anyone else, they'd not dare to smirk at him in the first place. "Why did you think that was enough to call me out here at night? Wouldn't you say that this is a positive step?"

Christian narrowed his eyes further. "How is this _positive_?" he asked incredulously.

"You're pursuing someone, Christian, instead of the other way around," Dr. Flynn said. "That shows a lot of openness that we didn't think you had."

"I'm _pursuing _her because I'd like her to enter into an agreement with me," Christian snapped. "That's not _good_."

"I would have thought you'd be happy to have a partner. It's been a while since Leila."

"Yes, a partner who has asked for what I do. Anastasia doesn't want this. _She _won't be happy with it."

"How do you know that? Have you asked her?" John clasped his hands just below his chin, his demeanor frustratingly at ease.

"No," Christian rolled his eyes impatiently. "She's barely more than a girl, when it comes to what I want from her! I'm not something she can handle." He shook his head as he saw John begin to protest, and added, "I know I'm not. I told you about the interview - she's too easily intimidated."

"You've also told me that she's very headstrong."

"I make her nervous."

"You're a famous, good-looking, well-to-do billionaire. You make a lot of people nervous."

_Not you_, Christian thought with some irritation. Aloud, he said, "She's too innocent."

"You were innocent when you began, and you think that it was good for you."

Christian's eyes flashed dangerously. "That was different. I was already a disaster. I already had… baggage, and Elena could take that away. Anastasia doesn't. She isn't. Do you want her to end up like me?"

"The whole purpose of this, this therapy, is that you haven't _ended up_ anywhere yet. And there is nothing wrong with who you are. We really must work on your self-negativity."

"Really." Christian laughed dryly. "Nothing wrong with me? Then why am I paying for a psychologist to make a two-hour trip to see me after hours?"

John joined in the laughter, but he sobered quickly. "If you thought that Anastasia couldn't do it, would you really be here, just to see her?"

"She's frustrating. I can't stay away from her."

John chuckled again. "You sound like a boy in love."

Christian glared at him again. "I'm not paying you for your poor sense of humor."

"I wasn't joking. You followed a woman here."

"I'm too much for her. She's young, and star-struck, and she doesn't know any better. She doesn't get that she should be running the other way."

"Is she an adult?"

"Yes." Christian's brow furrowed questioningly.

"Is she intelligent?"

"Of course she is."

"Are you going to coerce her to get her to enter into an arrangement with you?"

"Of course not!" Christian rose agitatedly and ran his hands through his hair, looking at Dr. Flynn so furiously that anybody else - _except Anastasia, perhaps_, Christian thought - would have quailed under his gaze.

"Then I don't see the problem with pursuing her. She - if she agrees - will be a consenting adult, fully aware of what she's doing."

"Isn't it still wrong?"

"Is it?" John asked mildly, appearing supremely unperturbed in an ingratiating way.

"You tell me," Christian snapped. "Isn't that your job?"

"I don't think so," John mused slowly, as if he was giving the idea careful consideration. "I think my job is to help you make those decisions for yourself."

"That's not very useful, you know." Christian was opening his mouth to say more, but his BlackBerry buzzed in his pocket, and he whipped it out, not bothering in his annoyance to look at the number on the screen. "Grey," he said sharply.

"Er… Mr. Grey?" His annoyance dissolved as he heard her voice. "It's Anastasia Steele." Her voice was soft and breathy and almost tangibly nervous. _This was why he couldn't ask her to be a sub._ She was nothing that a sub needed to be.

"Miss Steele," he said, and his voice was gentler without his trying to make it so. "How nice to hear from you." The words were more than a vacant courtesy, and Christian couldn't help but smile at the thought of her, so close - in the same city - listening to him on the other end of the line.

"Um - we'd like to go ahead with the photo shoot for the article." Anastasia paused, and Christian turned slightly and walked to the window at the other end of the room to hide his growing smile from Dr. Flynn. He'd half expected Anastasia to be too shy to follow up on the offer of the photo shoot when he'd proposed it, and he was surprised by how relieved and glad he was that she had. It felt like a door left open, an opportunity that he hadn't done anything to earn or deserve.

_It shouldn't_, Christian reminded himself, and he turned back to face John, who was watching with frank curiosity.

On the other end of the line, Anastasia took a deep, audible breath and continued, "Tomorrow, if that's okay." She made it sound like a question, even though _he'd_ been the one to suggest tomorrow, back at Clayton's Hardware. "Where would be convenient for you?"

"I'm staying at the Heathman in Portland. Shall we say nine thirty tomorrow morning?" Christian couldn't keep his smile from seeping into his voice, and, strangely enough, he didn't want to.

"Okay, we'll see you there." Her voice was still uneven, but now in a way that sounded more like eagerness than nerves.

She exhaled loudly across the phone line, and Christian closed his eyes for a moment, imagining the sound there, in the room with him, her breath warm against his skin… "I look forward to it, Miss Steele," he said, opening his eyes and savoring her last name on his lips.

_Stop_, he reminded himself. _She is not yours right now_. And, as if to emphasize his subconscious's chastening, Anastasia hung up with a click and left him alone under the penetrating - and now very present - gaze of Dr. Flynn.

"You appear to have a date," he remarked gravely, serious now, no hint of his pervious humor.

_See? Now you see how dangerous it is for me to pursue_.

"It's a photo shoot," Christian said aloud, defensive.

"You didn't tell me about that."

"I hadn't gotten around to it yet!"

"Why don't you just take her out on a real date?"

Christian stared silently, nonplussed.

"Christian?"

"I don't date. You're aware of that. I thought that this isn't about changing what I need, it's about learning how to accommodate that healthily." Christian recited the words that he'd heard so often from Dr. Flynn as though they were a mantra, discomfited by this new outlook John seemed to have suddenly taken up.

"You say you don't date as if it were a law that you wish you could break, not a preference that you choose."

"I can't. I don't know how."

"And yet you seem to be trying to."

Christian's eyes narrowed, his face closing off as he shrugged on an old façade as if it were a familiar coat.

"Just think about it," Dr. Flynn said, glancing at his watch and rising to go. "We've worked hard on accepting who you are, but that doesn't mean you're trapped in the conclusions we've reached. You're allowed to change, as long as it's on your terms."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

John frowned, his expression a mild rebuke. "There's no need to be defiant, Christian."

Christian gritted his teeth at John's use of his first name, thinking fleetingly that he shouldn't have allowed Dr. Flynn to make a first-name basis a requirement for his services.

"I'm not being-" Christian stopped short and instead crossed the room and held the door open for Flynn to leave, feeling rather glad to see him out.

"Enjoy your date, Christian," John called as he left, not looking back to see Christian's lost expression as the door swung shut behind him.

* * *

**A/N: **I hope you enjoyed! I was a little unsure of how to characterize Christian when he's with Dr. Flynn, so I hope it turned out okay. Review, please?


	4. Tea and Coffee

**A/N:** I get fewer reviews every time I update... I hope the story's not getting progressively worse. Can we try for a few more reviews this time, please? Sorry for putting an author's note at the top, I know you probably want to get right to the story, but I don't know if people read the ones at the bottom.

I hope you enjoy the chapter!

* * *

**Tea and Coffee**

Christian knew, waking up, that something had been off about the dream that had pulled him from his sleep. He frowned, testing his limbs and finding that he could move them this time. He kept his eyes closed, aware from the cool darkness on the inside of his eyelids that it was still nighttime, trying to remember the dream. He flexed his toes once more, and when they responded easily, without the usual frozen, fearful paralysis, he decided that it definitely hadn't been about the crack whore. Strange. It was always about her.

Gradually, trying not to concentrate on it too hard, he remembered vague, unfocused bits of the dream - strands of long blonde hair escaping from a tight braid, the feel of restraints around his wrists, his arms wrenched above his head, his thighs tense beneath something - somebody - warm and soft and larger than him.

_Elena?_

The rest of the dream came rushing back, the part where, somehow, he'd left his own body and looked down upon the scene as the person below Elena - the person that had been him - shifted into Anastasia, except Anastasia was doing it all wrong, bucking against the restraints instead of relaxing into them, and thrashing against the mahogany table that she was tethered to.

Christian recognized the table, it was the one that had been in his mother's study when he was a child, the one where Elena had first shown him everything she had to offer and teach. Christian grimaced and opened his eyes before he could arrive at the part of the dream where Elena had turned unexpectedly into himself, the part where he'd held Anastasia still and growled into her ear, _"Still think I might be gay?"_

Christian shook his head sharply, as if that could clear the strange dream from it, and sat up, glancing at the clock by the bed. The square digits read 6:15, and he swung his legs out of bed, pulling on sweatpants and a loose white tee shirt. Frowning and wishing that he was at home with his piano, he shoved his feet into sneakers instead and snatched up his music player from the nightstand.

Running to music in the dawning Portland morning was almost a sufficient replacement for playing music until the sun rose over his home in Seattle. The morning air was cool and damp and comfortable, and by the time he was fifteen minutes into his run, he was sweaty and charged and running fast enough to forget the oddly disturbing dream.

* * *

Christian's phone was ringing when he stepped out of the shower a few hours later. He wrapped a white towel around his waist and glanced at the screen, answering eagerly when he recognized the number Anastasia had called from the night before.

"Yes?"

"It's Anastasia."

Christian waited silently for her to continue, but she seemed to mistake his silence for confusion, because she elaborated, "Anastasia Steele."

"I'm well aware, Miss Steele," Christian smirked. When there was nothing more but baffled silence on Anastasia's side, he sighed lightly and encouraged, "Is everything for the photo shoot arranged?"

"Oh, right, yeah," Anastasia said, sounding scattered, as if she'd been thinking about something else. Christian's brow furrowed as he wondered what else might have been commanding her attention.

Meanwhile, Anastasia was still fumbling for words, righting herself. "I mean, um, yes, we're getting situated in suite 404A."

"I'll be there."

Christian hung up and exchanged the towel around his waist for a pair of smart, gray flannel pants and a white shirt. He glanced at the clock and dried his hair as thoroughly as he had time for before going downstairs to the suite.

As he arrived there, Taylor following reliably a few paces behind, Christian saw that Anastasia seemed to be in the midst of taking orders from a tall, very self-possessed woman. _The photographer, perhaps?_ As Christian approached, Anastasia moved a chair out of the way to the side of the wall, out of frame, rolling her eyes over her shoulder in teasing defiance at the woman in charge as she did so, calling something out to her that Christian couldn't quite hear.

As Anastasia set down the chair, Christian came to pause right before her, and she straightened up, her eyes settling on his as she did so. Her eyes widened, almost as if she was surprised to see him, and seemed to skim over him, finally ending up somewhere near his face but not quite meeting his gaze.

"Miss Steele, we meet again," Christian greeted her, the words feeling like a victory.

She flushed inexplicably, and turned in a flurry to gesture towards the woman who'd been giving direction. "Mr. Grey, this is Katherine Kavanagh." _So not the photographer, after all._

Christian smiled politely in Kate's direction, and she returned his gaze levelly, shaking his hand with a strong, steady grasp that seemed to have dominance laced over her touch.

He finished greeting her and turned his attention to the photo shoot, following the instruction of the person who turned out to be the photographer - a young, fresh-faced guy who looked very trustworthily and boyishly attractive, and who looked at Anastasia in ways that Christian wouldn't have allowed if she was his sub.

Jose was, despite his apparent preoccupation with Anastasia, an efficient worker, and quite good for an amateur. As Christian posed, he was pleased to see that the couple times he could chance a glance at Anastasia, she was looking back, and each time their eyes met, she flushed and hesitated a moment longer than would be normal before turning away.

He smiled passively at the camera and contemplated Dr. Flynn's words from the night before - _"Why don't you just take her out on a real date?"_ - such an innocuous, harmless suggestion, but one that had stuck with Christian despite his initial dismissal. There was nothing to lose in trying - and maybe, if it was awful, Anastasia would come to her senses and get as far away from him as she could. It would, in a way, be a relief to know that he wouldn't have the chance to ruin her.

"Great," Miss Kavanagh interrupted his musings. "Thank you again, Mr. Grey."

Christian nodded briskly at her, realizing that the photographer must have finished, and shook hands with both of them. He glanced at Anastasia, who was suddenly appearing much less interested than when they'd been shooting the photos, and permitted himself to be impulsive for once. "Will you walk with me, Miss Steele?"

"Sure." She cast Kate a worried glance, and as Christian followed her gaze, he caught sight of Jose, who looked rather disgruntled by the turn of events.

Smirking slightly, Christian moved to open the door for Anastasia, looking back for a last glimpse of Jose's disapproving face before he bid them all goodbye and followed Anastasia out into the corridor. He dismissed Taylor, and then turned to face Anastasia, who was biting her lip and fiddling with her hands, looking wide-eyed up at him like a child sent to the principle's office.

"I wondered if you would join me for coffee this morning," he explained, growing worried when her face reddened and then paled almost immediately, as if shocked. She licked her lips, frustratingly oblivious to what she looked like doing that, the tip of her tongue running invitingly along the soft curve of her lower lip, and she cleared her throat nervously. _Have I frightened her already?_

"I have to drive everyone home."

_So she was just looking for a way to say no._ Strangely irritated by his disappointment at that, Christian snapped, "Taylor!" more sharply than he intended, and regretted it when Anastasia flinched.

He tried to soften his next question to her, wishing that she would be at ease with him the way she was her photographer friend and her journalist roommate. "Are they based at the university?"

She nodded, seeming too intimidated to speak.

"Taylor can take them. He's my driver. We have a large 4x4 here, so he'll be able to take the equipment, too," Christian felt compelled to explain.

Anastasia was silent, still staring wide-eyed, and Christian, recognizing her uncertainty, did as he'd have done if she was his sub, and took charge for her since she apparently couldn't, directing Taylor to bring her friends home. "There," Christian smiled at her, pleased with himself. "Now can you join me for coffee?"

Anastasia frowned, and Christian found his stomach inexplicably sinking. _Surely it was not normal for asking somebody out be such an anxious ordeal, or nobody would ever do it._

"Um - Mr. Grey, er - this really…" Anastasia trailed off, stammering, and swallowed before continuing. "Look, Taylor doesn't have to drive them home."

_Can't she just say "no" outright if that's what she'd going to do?_

But Anastasia was going on, saying, "I'll swap vehicles with Kate, if you give me a moment."

Her sudden acceptance took Christian by surprise, leaving him speechless for a moment with joy and relief, only able to beam down at her approvingly and open the door for her to go make arrangements with her friends.

"You can go, Taylor," he said once Anastasia was gone.

"Yes, sir. Enjoy your date, sir."

"I will," Christian smirked.

Christian was just beginning to worry that she'd somehow run away when Anastasia finally reemerged from the suite. "Okay, let's do coffee."

She seemed eager now, and it was infectious as he walked to the elevator with her. He quickly found that she preferred to talk about her friends than herself, and he smiled as she relaxed under his gentle inquiry about Miss Kavanagh.

Anastasia seemed amused by the couple who were kissing passionately inside the elevator, and Christian smiled down at her, wishing that he could dip her over backwards and show the pair riding the elevator with them what a _real_ kiss was like. Instead, he settled on wrapping his long fingers around her small, soft hand. "What is it about elevators?" he mused, grinning at Anastasia to lighten her surprise at his affectionate gesture.

It was warm and sunny outside, and Christian beamed as he stepped onto the sidewalk with Anastasia, savoring the unfamiliar swell of pride in his chest at being seen with her by his side, a pride he'd never quite felt before, even at the few events his prior subs had accompanied him to. As they walked, Anastasia glanced from side to side self-consciously, and her hand twitched uncertainly in his, as if she thought it shouldn't be there. Christian tightened his fingers reassuringly around hers, and her hand relaxed into his again. Looked down at her, he saw the corners of her mouth spreading around a pleased grin, and he smiled to himself in satisfaction.

"Why don't you choose a table while I get the drinks?" he asked once they were inside the Portland Coffee House, making it a suggestion instead of the statement he'd have normally made, because she clearly shied easily and she wasn't his sub yet. "What would you like?" It was unfamiliar to be asking someone what they wanted to order, but he was curious about her preferences.

"I'll have… um-" she hesitated and flushed faintly, as if embarrassed. "English Breakfast tea, bag out."

_Leave it to her to come up with something surprising on a coffee date. _"No coffee?"

"I'm not keen on coffee."

_Oh. So why'd she agree to come?_ Christian suppressed a satisfied smile at the possibility that she, like him, had come just for an excuse to prolong their morning together. "Okay, bag out tea. Sugar?"

"No, thanks." And she was inexplicably shy again, looking down at her hands instead of up at him.

"Anything to eat?"

"No, thank you." Christian turned away without arguing, but as he stepped up to the counter, he doubted that she'd even eaten anything at all this morning. He remembered her throwing away half her bagel at Clayton's Hardware the day before, and frowned. She'd have to learn to eat if she was going to be his sub. He ran a hand through his hair in frustration and waited patiently for the coffee, ignoring the strange look from the girl behind the counter when he gave Anastasia's tea order, and trying not to think about subs and contracts for once.

Anastasia was biting her lip pensively when he returned, and Christian again pushed aside his unexpected desire to kiss her. "Penny for your thoughts?" he asked instead, because that was sure to be almost as interesting as a kiss.

Anastasia blushed and didn't reply, and Christian took a seat to give her time to answer. When she was still frustratingly mute, he probed again, "Your thoughts?"

"This is my favorite tea."

Christian frowned, because that certainly hadn't been what she was thinking when she'd flushed so fiercely. Honesty was another thing she'd have to learn, but in the meantime, Christian filed away the small bit of information she'd given, adding it to the profile of her, the _real_ her, that he was trying to construct in his mind.

She swirled the teabag in the hot water, removing after only a few seconds, and Christian gazed at her, fascinated. She was just so strange.

"I like my tea black and weak," she explained, making Christian grateful that at least this time she wouldn't force him to tease an explanation out of her.

"I see." And suddenly, without really meaning to, something that had been bothering Christian since the photo shoot burst from his lips before he even really recognized that he was still thinking about it. "Is he your boyfriend?"

Her face moved from surprised to blankly confused, and she looked around as if searching for someone in the coffee shop that he might be asking about. Christian allowed himself to begin to be relieved at her cluelessness as she asked, "Who?" appearing thoroughly bewildered.

"The photographer. Jose Rodriguez." Christian tried not to put too much scorn into his voice as he said the boy's name.

Anastasia laughed, but her brow lifted curiously at the same time. "No. Jose's a good friend of mine, that's all. Why did you think he was my boyfriend?"

_Because I'm a jealous beast_, Christian thought as relief swept over him, while he chastened himself for allowing his insecurities to reveal more than he would have liked to about himself, when there'd been nothing to worry about. To Anastasia, he answered, "The way you smiled at him, and he at you."

"He's more like family," she whispered in a tone that made Christian wonder if she wasn't thinking something very different. _How was he to ever know what she was thinking, when she flirted without even knowing she was doing so?_

He nodded at her, since it seemed to be the only assurance he was going to get from her, and began on his blueberry muffin to take the pressure off Anastasia, whose cheeks were still pink from some silent thought.

When he glanced up at her, she was watching his progress on the muffin closely. "Do you want some?" he offered hopefully. Somehow, with her, even sharing a muffin seemed like something more, something intimate.

"No, thanks." She looked away again, and Christian allowed himself to frown. _Why couldn't she just accept things? It was just a muffin. _It reminded him again of her discarded bagel, and the unpleasant thought brought him back around to a boy who worked at Clayton's that he'd met the day before, and he couldn't seem to stop himself from asking about him, too. It seemed inconceivable that she could not be tied up in some kind of relationship.

"No. Paul's just a friend," she answered, seeming a little impatient this time. "I told you yesterday. Why do you ask?" This time her inquiry was bolder, and Christian was amused to think that his nosiness took the edge off of the position of intimidation that he seemed to hold over her.

"You seem nervous around men." It wasn't quite an answer to her question, but it was the truth.

"I find you intimidating."

Christian was torn between surprisingly intense despair, and equally sharp relief that at least some of her survival instincts appeared to be intact. "You should find me intimidating." Her eyes snapped, and he realized that she probably perceived his veiled warning as arrogance. "You're very honest." _But only when you're peeved at me, _he amended internally.

Her blue gaze softened at his observation and she turned her eyes down to the table.

"Please don't look down," Christian implored, disappointed. "I like to see your face." _Maybe she'll be more honest if she sees that you are, too, _Christian reminded himself. Her presence made him _want _to say what he was thinking.

She obeyed, looking up at him again, and Christian smiled gently in approval. "It gives me some sort of clue what you might be thinking," he explained, defying the prick in his mind warning him not to deliberately draw her interest closer. He ignored it. "You're a mystery, Miss Steele." Somehow, using her surname made her seem older, less innocent, more capable of not breaking under all that he was.

She seemed genuinely surprised, and protested, "There's nothing mysterious about me." The way she said it seemed to suggest that she thought there was something mysterious about Christian, rather than the other way around.

"I think you're very self-contained," Christian admitted. Her surprise grew visibly, and Christian took another bite of his muffin and mused aloud, "Except when you blush, of course. I just wish I knew what you were blushing about." _There. Now she knows that I don't see past her omissions_.

Seeming to be spurred on by his commentary, Anastasia asked levelly, "Do you always make such personal observations?"

Taken aback, Christian answered truthfully, "I hadn't realized I was." _Is she angry?_ She was looking at him, stoic for once, and Christian took a chance and asked, "Have I offended you?"

"No."

He waited for her to elaborate, but when that seemed to be all, Christian nodded and approved, "Good."

Taking him by surprise again, Anastasia went on to say, "But you're very high-handed."

_You have no idea_. His felt his cheeks tingle and grow warm. She'd only ever seen the most gracious side of him, and she already thought he was high handed. He had no hope of having her. "I'm used to getting my own way, Anastasia," he said apologetically. And suddenly he wanted to warn her again, to save her from what she was too pure to know that she should fear. "In all things," he added, fearing and wishing simultaneously that she'd miraculously know what he meant.

She didn't, of course, and she answered sensibly, "I don't doubt it." And then, entirely irrelevantly, "Why haven't you asked me to call you by your first name?" Her voice was smooth and calmly objective, but there was an undercurrent with an edge to it.

It made sense, as soon as she'd said it, but Christian had never permitted any of his subs to use his given name, and they'd never desired to. They knew that that wasn't what a sub did, and it wasn't what they wanted. But of course it was something Anastasia would want. "The only people who use my given name are my family and a few close friends." _Elena_. For a moment, Christian recalled his strange, ominous dream, but he shook it off and added to Anastasia, "That's the way I like it." _See me for what I am._

She frowned, disapproval making the lines of her face severe, and Christian scrambled around for a change of subject. "Are you an only child?"

It was only when she raised her eyebrows and answered flatly, "Yes," that he realized it hadn't occurred to him to invite her to call him by his given name, and that now he'd missed the opportunity and she was probably misinterpreting it as more high-handedness.

"Tell me about you parents," he urged, pushing onwards since there was no going back.

He was able to draw a few details from her, but she was clearly uncomfortable speaking about herself, and finally he remarked, "You're not giving much away, are you?"

"Neither are you."

Her defiance, the way she met his eyes - not blushing, for once - made him wish that she'd already signed the contract so that he could show her just how _high-handed_ he could be, and the desire that flamed in the pit of his stomach made him remember the first time he'd wanted that from her. "You've interviewed me once already, and I can recollect some quite probing questions then."

Her overdue blush arrived, and Christian smirked, pleased that, even if he couldn't reprimand her as he wanted to, she was now at least remembering the _Are you gay?_ question along with him.

Anastasia returned to describing her mother to him - the fondness in her voice was endearing - and Christian smiled, happy enough to just listen to her talk that he could forget about his unfulfilled fantasies.

Anastasia didn't take long to direct the conversation back around to his parents, and Christian answered, concealing his reluctance and building for her a portrait of his perfect family, his _real_ family, the one that had wanted him, his body tense and anxious the whole while in spite of his knowledge that she'd didn't know enough about him to ask a question that would lead to the crack whore. He could see the looming adoption questions lurking behind her eyes, wrapped in curiosity, but she didn't ask about it, and he was grateful enough for it that he kept his annoyance and discomfort with the topic veiled as well as he could. There was no need for her to hear about his flawless family just so she could eventually realize that, behind his impressive front of entrepreneurship, he was just the one messed up child in a family of perfection.

After a time that was a lot shorter than it seemed, Anastasia used Mia as a segue into travel and then moved onto books. For a moment, she came alive while telling him about her favorite British authors, nearly glowing - until her expression sobered and she sighed softly, glancing at her watch and saying, "I'd better go. I have to study."

It had seemed like they'd just sat down to eat, but looking down at his plate, Christian realized his muffin was long gone and the little bit of coffee in the bottom of his cup had gone cold. He drained the rest of the coffee to cover his disappointment, taking some consolation in the fact that Anastasia looked vaguely disappointed, too, and asked, "For your exams?"

"Yes. They start Tuesday."

"Where's Miss Kavanagh's car?"

"In the hotel parking lot."

"I'll walk you back."

"Thank you for the tea, Mr. Grey," Anastasia said, rising to go, and Christian beamed at her, wishing that he'd asked her to call him "Christian," after all.

"You're welcome, Anastasia. It's my pleasure. Come," he beckoned for her to take his hand, and she did so willingly enough, strolling with him out into the glaringly bright sunlight outdoors.

* * *

**A/N****: **Thanks for reading!


	5. Imbalance

**Imbalance**

Anastasia was relatively quiet along the walk back to the Heathman hotel, and Christian took the opportunity to look down at her and mull over how strange it was - that this woman, the first sub he'd ever sought out on his own, the first girl he'd brought on a date, the first one that he was more interested in talking to than looking at - was so unassuming.

"Do you always wear jeans?" he asked, marveling at how she managed to be mesmerizing even without the expensive silks and high-end designers that Taylor usually obtained.

"Mostly."

Christian nodded, slightly disappointed at the brevity of her answer as she lapsed back into her own mysterious world of silent thoughts, but not sure what he'd really hoped for from such a question.

He was trying to think of something else, something better, something that would get her attention as easily as she held his, when she asked suddenly, her voice uncharacteristically loud, "Do you have a girlfriend?"

_Are you hoping that I don't?_ Christian restrained himself from asking it aloud and answered instead, smiling at her with a small, wistful smile - half regret, half something that felt a little like hope. "No, Anastasia. I don't do the girlfriend thing."

Her brow furrowed at that, seeming more thoughtful than disappointed, and Christian wished that he could reach out and place a finger under her delicate, soft chin and turn her face up to his so that he could read her thoughts in her eyes. But before he could act upon the urge or hold himself back, several things happened all at once as Anastasia stepped abruptly off the sidewalk into the intersection and the whirring sound of a bicycle's spinning wheels - moving way too fast and in the wrong direction - filled Christian's ears.

Christian's fingers tightened where they were curled around Anastasia's hand, and he yanked her back, hard, out of the way and up against his chest. The hazardous bicycle buzzed past as Anastasia lost her footing, and before he knew what he was doing, Christian was holding her in his arms, flush against his chest, closer than Christian liked anybody to be to his chest, but instead of stiffening in panic, he pressed Anastasia's warm body closer and wished that he could melt into her.

She was right there, still not quite having regained her balance, her proximity and body heat overwhelming, and Christian didn't bother trying to stop himself this time as he kept one arm securely around her waist and reached up to gently stroke her face with his other hand. This time, so unlike when she'd protested his helping hands after tumbling into his office for their first meeting, Anastasia's lips parted and she inhaled unevenly, her face leaning almost imperceptibly into his hand.

Christian's thumb ran over her lower lip, almost unbidden, and his stomach swooped and clenched unevenly. Her lips were so soft, the skin over them delicate, like a wet petal, and her eyes were wide and luminous and something more that was very close to lust. She was obliging, finally, with her thoughts perfectly evident to him now, her desire flaming in her eyes as her gaze flickered hungrily down to his mouth.

But accompanying the lust blooming in her expression was a need for it, a need for _him_, and with it, Christian's sense of restraint came rushing back to him with alarm. She _wanted _him. It had taken all morning long for her to reveal it, and it was clearly unintentional now, but it was finally clear in her eyes, and now that Christian had what he wanted, he found that he couldn't accept it. The clear notes of a song came suddenly to Christian's mind, the pristine voices of _Spem in Alium_, as pure as Anastasia herself, and he closed his eyes, steeling himself for what was fast becoming far more difficult than what letting go of a sub should ever be.

"Anastasia, you should steer clear of me," Christian said, his voice unyielding as he forced himself to use her first name. There could be no more pretending that she was any older or more experienced than she was. "I'm not the man for you." He'd said it so many times to subs who wanted things from him that he wasn't able to give, and yet this time, he couldn't bear to speak it in anything more than a pained whisper, not trusting his voice to send her away when every nerve in his body wanted to seep into her skin and become a part of her.

Anastasia's face barely moved, but it was like a light behind her eyes had been shut off, and her eyes widened almost imperceptibly, her eyebrows drawing the slightest bit closer in what was obviously a silent _no_.

"Breathe, Anastasia, breathe," Christian reminded her, being in control for her even now because it was what he did, apparently even for girls whom he could never be good enough to truly take care of.

She took a sudden gasp of air, almost like she'd been resuscitated, and her cheeks slowly paled, the blush that had colored them draining from her face. "I'm going to stand you up and let you go," Christian warned gently in the same voice that he used to prepare nervous subs for what was coming next.

He moved her away slowly, using just his hands on her upper arms, and hesitated a moment to see that she wouldn't sway and fall again before he let her go completely.

"I've got this," she muttered, seeming to be speaking more to herself than to Christian, and he wondered if she was even talking about her sense of balance at all.

In another moment, she regained the rest of her self-control and murmured, "Thank you," to him, her voice very distinctly separate and neutral, though slightly tinged with embarrassment.

"For what?" _I haven't done anything but waste your morning trying to be something I'm not capable of._

"For saving me." Her voice was soft and silken and seductive - even though she clearly wasn't trying to be - and Christian hated it, hated himself for being affected by it, for not being able to have her.

_Not corrupting you is hardly saving you,_ Christian wanted to say. Instead, he exacted his bitterness on the bicyclist who'd demolished the relatively normal morning he'd constructed for Anastasia, saying with unwarranted asperity, "That idiot was riding the wrong way." Hearing the harshness in his own voice, Christian added more softly, "I'm glad I was here. I shudder to think what could have happened to you." And then, unable to stop the words from sliding past his lips, "Do you want to come and sit down in the hotel for a moment?"

_Control yourself!_

Christian was torn between relief and disappointment when Anastasia managed to show more control than he could - _or maybe she's just not all that interested in you after all _- and shook her head. She turned back around and crossed the street without a single word, and Christian trailed after her, wondering if she was more furious at him than he already was at himself, and then doubting that such a thing was possible.

When she reached the sidewalk on the other side, Anastasia turned back to Christian, and he was eager for a moment before he saw that she was unwilling to even meet his earnest gaze. "Thanks for the tea and doing the photo shoot." Her voice was businesslike and detached.

"Anastasia… I…" Christian trailed off, realizing that he'd never plead for anything in his life, that he didn't know how to, and that he didn't know what he was pleading for anyway.

For her to be his sub? _As if you deserve her._

For the date to have been better? _It's a little too late for that now._

For her to please try to understand that he didn't know, that he couldn't know, how to be good enough for her?_ That's a start._

His pain was irrational and too intense and almost tangible, and he hated that, too.

"What, Christian?" Anastasia snapped, and he realized that she'd been waiting and watching him trying and failing to be coherent. _Because that's so impressive of you._

"Good luck with your exams," Christian sighed, giving up and deciding that if Anastasia was going to be distant, he could manage to do so, too.

"Thanks," her voice was bitter and sarcastic and laced with failed expectations. "Goodbye, Mr. Grey."

She stalked off, her posture angry and self-righteous, and Christian stood staring after her, wondering how he could have expected anything else. How could he have thought he'd do anything but disappoint? _Christ_, Christian thought bitterly to himself,_ you asked her if she always wore jeans._

Probably that repulsive photographer from the photo shoot knew how to arrange a proper date. One that wouldn't end in Anastasia leaving coldly. He seemed nice and straightforward and the kind of guy who was probably open and sensitive and made girls swoon over him. _Really _swoon, without having to use the attraction of endless money or a roomful of toys to help it along. Anastasia would probably do herself well with Jose.

It was for her own good that their coffee date had been a disaster. _Definitely._

And yet even as Christian firmly decided this, he found himself following Anastasia down into the underground parking garage, keeping several feet behind her, not wanting her to know that he was trailing after her like a fool, but not quite willing to let her out of his sight.

His brow furrowed when her fierce, untouchable stature fell the moment she was inside the parking garage, her shoulders curving inward as if to shield her from something, her head tilting down, her footfall slowing and faltering until she finally slumped up against one of the cold walls.

She leaned against the concrete for a moment, her back rising and falling with deep breaths, and then her head bowed and her hands came up to cover it. Her slim body sagged against the wall and she slid down along the length of it until she was crumpled on the floor. She drew her knees against her chest, withdrawing into herself, and Christian watched her pain and felt irrationally like he was losing her.

This was supposed to be what he liked. How many times had subs folded themselves at his feet, willingly, unhesitatingly, and how many times had he liked it? How many times had he licked his lips in anticipation and ran the tip of a whip lightly over the long indentation of the spine that ran along their bare backs as they crouched at his feet? How many times had seeing this same submissive, hopeless, helpless posture tugged at his loins and set the pit of his stomach alight with a hot blaze?

But now, as Christian watched her shoulders tremble, Anastasia more exposed in the moment than any of his subs had ever been, he found himself powerless to do anything to stop it, and he felt only a desolate clench in his chest. A dull hatred towards himself for being the thing that had put her here, alone on the floor of a parking garage like this.

Anastasia buried her face in her knees, and Christian's hand twitched involuntarily towards her, but he snatched it shut into a hard fist, so tight that he could feel his nails bite into his palm, and restrained himself. _You did this_, he reminded himself. _This is because of you. You have no right to want to touch her._

It was true, Christian realized - even if the only touch he was interested in offering at the moment was one of solace, he knew that surely, if he'd been incapable of conducting a date, he'd be lost in the language of solace.

Instead, Christian stepped silently around to the other side of the wall and slid down against it, crossing his arms over his knees and resting his chin on them, mirroring Anastasia's broken posture opposite their wall almost precisely, unwilling to leave her there.

_Would it really have been so difficult_, Christian wondered as he waited and listened to her, _to just be normal for once? Give her flowers and a nice dinner. Call her a day after the date, but make sure not to seem too eager, and ask how her day had gone and work around to taking her out again?_ Christian had been forced to watch enough romantic comedies with Mia to know how it was supposed to work._ Would that have been such a terrible sacrifice of your lifestyle, in exchange for Anastasia?_

He wondered what Mia would tell him to do if she could possibly know the wreck that their date had been. Probably smack him playfully in the back of the head and tell him that he was an idiot, Christian decided fondly. And then she'd tell him that nothing said "second chances" like white roses, and she'd tell him to buy some.

Christian ruled out the roses almost instantly, but, pulling out his BlackBerry, he thought that it wasn't too late for something better. Anastasia liked British literature. That was something he could do. Moments later, he'd express ordered first editions of _Tess of the d'Urbervilles,_ and as he tipped his head back against the concrete, he felt slightly less helpless.

Soon, Anastasia's breathing on the other side of the wall grew more regular and less audible, and when Christian heard her car's ignition start he stood - stretching his long legs, cramped from sitting on the hard floor for so long - and watched her go, staring after her ancient car and wishing that he could give her something better.

He began his walk back to his hotel room and placated himself with the reminder that the books, though not a car, were a start, and were probably about as old as her car - which, Christian realized, smirking, would probably make her happy. It was, if nothing else, something he could at least get right.

* * *

**A/N:** I want to address something, just to be clear and try to set the right expectations: I have started this story by following the plot from the books precisely, to establish how I believe Christian felt when he was first getting to know Ana. However, I have always planned that as I move forward I'm going to gradually add to and change the plot of the books. My goal here, as I said in the summary, is to show that Christian only needed someone who believed in him enough to challenge him, because in the books he always seemed to be happiest when Ana was being herself, not she she was being his submissive. So this is just a reminder that the plot is eventually going to become original and only contain some parallelisms to the real books.

I hope you aren't bored/bothered by the fact that there is only minimal original plot material thus far. That is something I'm trying to gradually change.

I hope you're enjoying the story and that you stick with it. Thanks for reading!


	6. Yours Sincerely

**Yours Sincerely**

"I need to stop," Christian declared without preamble as he stepped into Dr. Flynn's office.

Dr. Flynn clasped his hands under his chin and looked at Christian with an annoyingly passive gaze. "Let's take a moment and slow down, Christian."

Christian stared open-mouthed at Dr. Flynn for a moment before shutting it with a snap and running both hands through his hair instead. "I don't have time for a moment. Make me stop."

"Stop what?"

"This is all about goal-oriented progress, right?" Christian said haphazardly, his eyes wild and almost frantic. "So I've got a goal. Make me leave Anastasia alone."

Dr. Flynn's eyes sparkled with what looked like amusement. "It sounds like you're giving _me_ a goal. Did you misunderstand the way goal-oriented therapy works?"

"I'm not misunderstanding," Christian rolled his eyes. "I sent her books."

"Really?" Dr. Flynn's blonde eyebrows arched in mild surprise. "You didn't mention any books when you told me about the date. Don't tell me we're withholding now, we're far beyond that. What books did you send her? It seems harmless enough. I'm not sure why I've cancelled with another patient for this. You told me it was imperative that we speak now."

"I didn't tell you about the books because I wanted to send them without anyone else's prerogative. On my own."

"You hire assistants for all kinds of things. Nobody could expect you to run an empire like yours without aids. Why do you think that makes your actions and intentions belong to you any less? You certainly hold yourself to full responsibility when it comes to blame? Why not with positive initiatives?"

"I wanted it to be mine. I wanted the books to really come from me."

"You're showing a lot of dedication for someone who just burst in and demanded for me to tell you how to stop."

Christian scowled at Flynn, feeling mocked, but unsure why or what for. "She's driving me crazy. The dreams are -" Christian broke off, not wanting to proceed.

"Worse?" Dr. Flynn prodded.

"No. Yes. _No._ Just - different."

"Different how?"

"They're not about _her_."

"Do you mean your mother? You can refer to her without a pronoun, you know."

"My _mother _is Grace Trevelyan-Grey. The dreams aren't about the _crack whore _anymore, if you're going to insist on no pronouns."

"And they're not about her boyfriend, either?"

"No."

Dr. Flynn waited, and when Christian said nothing more, Flynn reminded gently, "I can't help you unless you're honest with me. I believe you hold the same policy with your partners, yes?"

"The dreams are about Elena now. And… and about Anastasia."

"Within the same dream?"

"Anastasia is always her submissive in them," Christian supplied, nodding.

"And because of that, you want to leave her alone?"

"She's always afraid of Elena. In the dreams."

"Is she afraid of you?"

"I - no. She's intimidated, sometimes, or nervous, but never afraid."

"Then I fail to see the connection."

"I just want to say goodbye to her. I tried to - with the books I sent. I left her a warning."

Dr. Flynn leaned forward slightly, curious. "You never did mention what books you sent."

"_Tess of the d'Urbervilles_. With a note - a quote - telling her that I'm dangerous."

"Dangerous, hmm?" Dr. Flynn mused. "That direct, huh?"

"She deserves for me to at least be direct."

"Well, then what do you need my help for? It seems that you've made a choice and acted on it. The note was your way of telling Anastasia goodbye, yes?"

"It was supposed to be."

"I don't think I understand the problem here, Christian."

Christian sighed and clasped his hands over his knee and stared at them, hating what they wanted to do. "I wasn't really trying to tell _Anastasia_ that it's goodbye. She'd never try to seek me out. After all, _she _was the one who left at the end of the date."

Christian hesitated a moment before continuing, silently remembering Anastasia folding to the floor of the parking garage like a bird with a broken wing. He hadn't told Dr. Flynn about that part of it. He shook off the remembrance and said to Dr. Flynn, "I was trying to tell _myself_ that it's pointless. That she's not a submissive. That I should find someone else. It wouldn't take long to find a sub."

"And you still fail to say what the problem is."

Christian glared across at Dr. Flynn, knowing that Flynn _knew_ what the problem was, that they'd already discussed it more times than he liked to remember, that Flynn was forcing him to say it aloud. "I can't stop wanting her. I shouldn't want her at all. She's not my type."

"You're going to need to be more specific about that type, Christian."

"_She doesn't look like the crack whore!_" Christian snapped, his voice overly loud in the small office. "They all - all the submissives - look like my failure of a mother, and she doesn't, and there's no reason for me to want her! There, I said it, are you pleased? Was that supposed to just fix this? Hmm? Because _it didn't_." The last words were a bitter hiss, and Christian dropped his head and ran his hands through his hair again, pulling it at it angrily.

"I'm no good for her," he whispered finally, raising his head, "so make me stop wanting her."

"I can't change you," Dr. Flynn said, entirely unperturbed, in a voice that Christian knew would have been sympathetic if Flynn didn't know that it would get him fired. "You know this."

"So you're telling me that you're useless."

"No."

"Then _what_?"

"I'm telling you that maybe, wanting Anastasia is a new goal. A different one. We are goal-oriented, after all. And maybe her not looking like your mother is a good thing. A sign that you're ready to let someone new into your life."

Christian narrowed his eyes at Flynn skeptically, but said nothing.

Dr. Flynn gave him a pleased smile. "It's an option. Consider it."

Christian located his voice again and shook his head. "Do you think I don't already _want _the option? It's too late." He'd wanted to say it firmly, but it was barely above a whisper. "Do I need to remind you again that _she_ left _me_ at the end of the date?"

"Apparent twenty seven years old wasn't too late for a first date, Christian. Don't say that it's too late."

Christian sighed and stood to go, brushing his palms against the thighs of his pants as he did. "I'm not going to push myself on her, not when I'm no good for her and I'm not what she wants anyway. Look, if Anastasia tries to contact me again, I'll give you a bonus bigger than your yearly salary. _And_ I'll think about reassessing my goals."

Dr. Flynn smiled up at Christian. "You're being insincere."

"Because I'm not going to hear from Anastasia."

"And if you do?" Seeing Christian's ready rebuttal, Dr. Flynn held up a hand and added dryly, "Humor me. If you do?"

"Then you'll see just how very sincere I can be."

* * *

"Christian!" came a shout from the hallway. Some banging on the door followed, and then again, in a young man's voice, "_Christian!_"

Christian yanked the door of his hotel suite open, ready to send an angry note down to room service for letting somebody intrude like this, but halted when he saw the broad, grinning smile of his brother.

"Elliot?" Christian stepped back to let him in, staring at him in wonder. "What are you doing here?" Under other circumstances, that sentence would have been uttered with annoyance, but it was impossible to be anything but happy with Elliot there, his warmth radiating like a portable little sun.

"You're giving the keynote speech at WSU's commencement!" Elliot said enthusiastically. "I never got to see my little brother graduate from Harvard, so it looks like this is the closest I'm going to get!"

Christian rolled his eyes and shoved Elliot lightly in the shoulder. "Absolutely not."

"Why not?" Elliot pouted, and Christian almost laughed at the sight.

"Because you don't really want to spend your morning with a bunch of college kids, do you?"

"There could be some girls there," Elliot said, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.

_Anastasia will be there._ "Don't be an idiot. You don't want a college girl. You want a woman."

"Maybe _you_ could use a college girl for once," Elliot said, crossing his arms and gazing at Christian with the same _what-are-you-going-to-do-about-that?_ expression he used when they were kids and Elliot would purposely put Christian's piano out of tune.

"Shut up," Christian said, his voice just a shade frostier.

Elliot didn't have time to answer, because Christian's phone rang unexpectedly, and his eyes widened in disbelief when he recognized the number on it. "Make yourself at home," he murmured to Elliot before wandering into the bedroom - trying to make it look less purposeful than it was - and answering the phone. "Anastasia?"

It was noisy in the background, mingling voices and the hard, pounding beat of overly loud music audible on Anastasia's end of the line. "Why did you send me the books?" her voice was garbled and indistinct, her syllables slurring into each other, and if he didn't know her better, Christian would have wondered if she was at a club.

"Anastasia, are you okay? You sound strange." Irrational worry built up in his chest.

"I'm not the strange one, you are." Her voice was bold, but with a dullness to it that made it clear she wasn't in her usual sharply defiant state. In any other moment, he'd have wanted to punish her for being so insolent, but the girl on the other end of the phone line wasn't _his_ Anastasia who asked unabashedly personal questions, this was a drunk version with all her witty, dry humor gone, and Christian didn't want to do anything to her but give her a glass of water and get her sober before she could do anything else so colossally stupid.

"Anastasia, have you been drinking?"

Irritation sharpened his tone, and he closed his eyes briefly in frustration when she slurred back, "What's it to you?"

"I'm…" _annoyingly obsessed with you._ "Curious," Christian finished, deciding that she wasn't drunk enough for him to risk saying the things he actually thought. "Where are you?"

"In a bar."

_So unhelpful._ "Which bar?"

"A bar in Portland."

It was like talking to a child, but he figured that that was enough information to go by if he had to. "How are you getting home?"

"I'll find a way."

_With god-knows-who, in your current state._ "Which bar are you in?" Christian tried again.

"Why did you send me the books, Christian?" She was stubborn as ever.

_Because I'm afraid I'll destroy you._ "Anastasia, where are you? Tell me now," he allowed the voice of his dominant self to take over the conversation, doubting that even that would be enough to reach her inebriated mind.

She giggled, the sound of it bland, nothing like the pretty lilt it'd been when she was sober and with her friends at the photo shoot. "You're so… domineering."

_You have no idea._ Her acknowledgement of what he really was, though it was unwitting, snapped the thread of patience that had been holding him together, and Christian growled, "Ana, so help me, where the fuck are you?"

"I'm in Portland… 's a long way from Seattle."

"Where in Portland?"

The deadliness in his voice was apparently lost on her, because instead of answering, Anastasia slurred, "Good night, Christian."

"Ana!" He hardly realized that he'd finally given in and called her by her preferred nickname. There was more he'd have hissed at her, but the line cut out with a click, and Christian swore fiercely through his teeth. It was possibly the first time anybody had ever hung up on him.

From behind him, a voice said mockingly, "Now, Christian, that's no way to speak to a lady," and Christian spun around to see Elliot, leaning in the doorway and laughing. "Sounds like maybe you don't need a college girl after all."

"Did you drive here?" Christian asked, ignoring Elliot's foolish commentary.

"Yeah, why?"

"Go pull your car around from the parking garage. We're going to go find my college girl."

"Are you stalking the drunk girl on the phone?"

Christian froze for a moment before he realized that Elliot was merely joking. "Shut up and get your car, unless you want to stay here and let me go off to a bar without you."

"Fine, whatever, I'm coming, you don't need to be dramatic about it. Keep your pants on, Christian."

"My pants are _on_. Now _go_."

* * *

**A/N: **I have such a great time writing Dr. Flynn's scenes. Usually I struggle with balancing how open I should have Christian be with his thoughts/emotions. In my mind, I think he must have loved Anastasia long before it's made apparent in the books, otherwise he'd never have demonstrated such caring and faithfulness to her so early on, or been so willing to try for _more_ even when he knew that she's not a submissive at heart. But I'm always worried that if I have him feel that too early on, it'll seem out of character. But Dr. Flynn gives him an opportunity to say exactly what he feels, and it just frees me to make Christian as open and honest as I want him to be.

So I have a question for you all - Christian makes it pretty clear in the second book that he's capable of talking about his feelings with Anastasia. But do you think that it's too early for him to be acknowledging his feelings internally at this point in the story?


	7. Contact

**Contact**

"How'd you know to come here?"

"It's one of the many perks of being a CEO," Christian answered dryly as Elliot parked in front of the bar Christian had traced Anastasia to.

"Oh, come on, give it up. I know Bill Gates doesn't follow his drunk girlfriends to bars."

"Well then it's a good thing I'm not following a girlfriend here, isn't it?"

"You know it's not like I'm going to steal whatever fancy technology you've got going here and use it to stalk my own women. Stalking isn't my style."

"Cell phone tracking is hardly a fancy technology, so I'd agree that stalking doesn't really suit you well."

"Have you ever let anyone besides you be right? About anything?"

"No. Now, go inside and have a nice time. Anastasia's got a friend you'd like, her name's Kate, she's a strawberry blonde."

"My favorite," Elliot grinned, and Christian allowed himself to be relieved that Elliot would be sufficiently occupied.

"Thanks for the ride. I'll send someone for you if I don't end up driving you back."

"You mean if you take Anastasia back to your hotel? It's not very gentlemanly to take advantage of drunk girls, you know."

"Go inside, Elliot."

Christian strode away without waiting to see if Elliot was listening and headed towards the entrance of the bar. Before he could get inside, though, he heard low, accented tones that were strangely familiar, and his gaze was drawn to two forms standing close together in the shadows of the building. "You know I like you Ana, please."

Christian's stomach seemed to fall as he recognized the voice of the photographer, saying Anastasia's name in a way that nobody should be permitted to use, and for a moment, Christian was stepping back, away, because apparently Jose had been the one for her, after all.

But then Anastasia's hands, almost entirely obscured by the darkness, came up and very distinctly tried to push against Jose's chest, and she muttered, "No, Jose, stop - no," and for all her prior drunkenness, her voice was very clear now.

Christian was furious in an instant, and he moved silently in closer.

Meanwhile, Jose ignored her - _how could anybody refuse what was Anastasia's will, _Christian wondered, _how could anybody want to? - _and pressed himself closer, his hands sliding up into her hair. "Please, Ana, carino," Jose whispered, and Christian knew from the way the words rolled from his tongue that Jose was drunk, too.

"Jose, no," Anastasia repeated, and this time, her voice was higher, almost panicky.

Christian gave Jose a beat of a second to back off, and when he didn't, Christian stepped forward and said, low and silky and dangerous, "I think the lady said 'no.'"

That was enough, and Jose's hands were off of her immediately, as he said something to Christian that was supposed to be intimidating, but Christian only spared Jose a moment's glare before he stared anxiously at Anastasia, watching as her already fair pallor paled further, and then turned frighteningly ashen.

Ana's eyes widened suddenly, as if in horror, and Christian was moving to her side almost before she had time to double over and vomit. He slipped an arm around her waist, barely noticing that she was entirely pliant in his arms, and yanked her hair back from her sweaty face as she bent over him, gagging and choking against him.

Jose was moving further away, which was simultaneously a relief and an annoyance - _how could someone who was making overtures just a moment ago not need to take care of Ana in such a helpless instance?_ - but Christian brushed the thought of Jose aside and led Anastasia to a more secluded patch of shrubbery at the edge of the bar's parking lot.

She stopped and gasped for breath, and looked for a moment like she thought she could stand on her own, so Christian held her tighter and ordered, "If you're going to throw up again, do it here." His tone seemed to cause her to stiffen further, so Christian added more gently, "I'll hold you," and wasn't surprised when her second attempt to push him away dissolved into more vomiting.

Finally she was finished, bracing her hands against the low brick wall in front of them, and Christian slowly slid his hands off her once he was sure she wouldn't collapse. Wondering wryly how much she'd had to drink, he drew a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her, not looking at her, trying to respect as much of her dismantled dignity as possible.

Anastasia was gazing past him at something, and Christian bit back his irritation when he realized she was looking at Jose, who was hovering just far enough away to make it clear that he wanted no piece of what he'd just witnessed, but still near enough to be awkwardly involved.

"I'll, er… see you inside," he finally muttered unnecessarily, and Christian was left alone with Ana as Jose disappeared into the bar.

Christian looked down at Anastasia, keeping their bodies close in case she decided to be sick again, but very carefully not touching her. He waited for her to speak - after all, she'd had plenty to say over the phone, but all her inhibitions seemed to have returned as she gazed down at Christian's handkerchief and whispered, "I'm sorry."

Christian raised his eyebrows in surprise, wishing that she'd just look at him, and asked softly, "What are you sorry for, Anastasia?"

"The phone call, mainly. Being sick." Christian frowned, wanting to point out that it was ridiculous to apologize for something that she couldn't possibly help, like being sick, but Anastasia was continuing, "Oh, the list is endless."

Deciding that he could relate to her last sentiment, Christian's lips curved up into an only slightly mocking smirk as he tried to lighten her mood. "We've all been here, perhaps not quite as dramatically as you. It's about knowing your limits, Anastasia. I mean, I'm all for pushing limits, but really this is beyond the pale."

For a moment, Christian began to imagine that he could be the one to teach her those limits, that it would be a privilege, but he stopped that thought immediately, reminding himself that he was supposed to be leaving her alone, that he was here only because she was apparently a disaster when she was drunk. He refocused on the task at hand, and when Anastasia did nothing but stare solemnly at the ground, he tried again to coax some of her usual fiery temper from her. "Do you make a habit of this kind of behavior?"

"No," she said stubbornly, her lips forming a sullen pout. "I've never been drunk before and right now I have no desire to ever be again." It was clear from her tone that she meant to come off as snappish and self-righteous, but the slight slur still in her voice took most of the dignity from her pronouncement.

Christian frowned at her in disapproval and she stared back, irritated. Somehow, her anger ignited Christian, too, and for a moment he was frustrated with her. He'd worked everything out - he'd been going to stay in Portland until after the WSU commencement speech, and then go back home and forget about the plain, clumsy, forward girl who'd stumbled into his life full of nosy questions and fearless remarks. And instead, he was here, in a dark parking lot with her, hoping that she wouldn't start biting her lip.

_This is your fault,_ Christian wanted to tell her. _Why couldn't you just have some remote sense of self-preservation and decide to drunk-dial someone else?_

Before he could consider actually saying those words aloud, Anastasia paled alarmingly and swayed ever so slightly, her eyes widening as her knees seemed to waver beneath her. Christian reached out for her reflexively, placing a hand on her waist to steady her, and she felt so soft and frail and so shockingly _breakable_ under his palm that he bent swiftly, swept his other arm up under her knees, and straightened up in a single fluid movement, holding her gently to his chest. She was light, even though she was limp in his arms like dead weight, and Christian thought absently that she really ought to eat more.

In the moment, it was no effort to not think of her a submissive, even though she'd never seemed so dependent, and Christian didn't need to try to sound gentle when he murmured to her, "Come on, I'll take you home."

"I need to tell Kate."

It seemed like she was always needing to report back to Kate, but Christian kept his tone patient as he answered, "My brother can tell her."

"What?"

"My brother Elliot is talking to Miss Kavanagh."

The shock and confusion on her face was amusing, and Christian only barely managed to keep a straight face as she asked bemusedly, "Oh?"

"He was with me when you phoned."

"In Seattle."

_You really are drunk._ "No, I'm staying at the Heathman."

"How did you find me?"

Christian hesitated for a moment, and then was seized by a sudden need for her to know him, to know all that he was. "I tracked your cell phone, Anastasia."

Even to his own ears, his voice sounded low and dangerous and menacing, and he half expected Anastasia to fight his arms that held her, but she merely rolled her eyes at him, oddly calm.

"Do you have a jacket or a purse?" Christian asked, becoming businesslike in his worry.

"Er… yes, I came with both. Christian, please, I need to tell Kate. She'll worry."

Christian struggled as he tried not to frown, thinking that Kate was right to worry. That if Anastasia had any sense, she'd be worrying, too.

"If you must." Christian let her down out of his arms reluctantly, but kept a tight grasp on her hand, holding on as if afraid that he'd lose her again. _You weren't supposed to see her again_, Christian reminded himself as they threaded their way through the bar. _This doesn't mean anything is different. You're going to take her home and forget about her. _He kept his fingers curled securely around Anastasia's hand nonetheless, staying close by her side as he lead her to Kate, who was dancing with Elliot.

A single glance at Anastasia made it clear that she was too far gone to conduct a conversation, so Christian reached his mouth up to Elliot's ear and yelled over the pounding music, "I'm taking her back to the hotel. Should I send a ride over for you?"

"Nah, I've got this."

"So I see. Enjoy," Christian smirked, knowing that the music was loud enough that Kate wouldn't hear him, even though he was shouting.

He led Anastasia quickly out of the bar, keeping an arm lightly at her elbow, guiding her along. They were almost to the door when she paused suddenly, her gaze going blank and unfocused, and then she crumpled limply, sliding down towards the floor. He caught her instinctively before she could hit the floor, his hands grasping firmly under her armpits and hauling her back up. She was passed out cold, her head lolling back against his chest, and Christian shifted her to one side, supporting her back with one arm and swinging her legs up with the other so she was cradled against him for the second time that night, her head resting on his shoulder.

There was something about having her there, carrying her, that made him feel tender, so he countered it quickly by snapping at a bystander with unwarranted impatience for them to get the door, and he brought Anastasia out to the car. It was only when he'd gotten her buckled into the rear seat that Christian realized he couldn't possibly drop her off at home when she was so solidly unconscious. After all, people died from passing out drunk. He'd seen the crack whore and her pimp come close several times himself.

Pushing the unwelcome memory away, Christian smoothed Anastasia's hair away from her sweaty forehead and headed back with her to Heathman Hotel, deciding that he could punish himself later for what was sure to turn out to be a terrible lapse in judgment.

* * *

Christian stared down at Anastasia, now under the starched white sheets of his bed, and contemplated where he was going to put himself. He'd always imagined that Anastasia would be conscious for the first time he undressed her, and it had seemed somehow wrong - violating - to think of her that way when he pulled off her socks and undid the button and zipper at the top of her jeans and slid them down past her thighs and drew her ankles free from them. So he'd kept his mind fixed firmly on thought of Elliot and Kate, wondering what they were doing, because it was surely something normal that didn't involve undressing an unconscious girl, and he refused to mentally acknowledge that Anastasia was at all a woman as he drew the duvet over her form and folded her clothes in a small stack on the floor by the bed.

But now that she was asleep, and he'd showered and ascertained for himself that Ana wasn't drunk enough to vomit and choke to death in her sleep, he hardly knew what to do with himself. It would be easy enough, he knew, to sleep with her innocently when she lying unaware and unresponsive in his bed - after all, she was hardly Anastasia when she wasn't snapping something fearless at him. But that didn't solve the problem that the night terrors posed, and Christian had no desire to wake her up with the sound of his own screaming.

He closed his eyes and pressed his forefingers to his temples and tried to think of what Dr. Flynn would say to do. Instead of advice, though, the last fragments of their most recent conversation came returning to Christian, and he remembered vowing to reassess what he wanted if Anastasia chose to contact him again. At the time, he'd been certain that Anastasia would want nothing to do with him. _But she called you_, Christian realized. _She wanted to know why you sent the books. She cared. Even if she_ was _only drunk. She trusted you, when she didn't trust her photographer friend_. And suddenly, he knew that he'd meant it when he spoke the words to Dr. Flynn. If Ana hadn't given up on him yet, then he had no right to, either. He could try. It was better than the idea of never seeing her again, and if she didn't like what he was, then he'd make it clear that she could go.

The realization of it was liberating, and Christian opened his eyes, no longer so concerned about the nightmares. If they woke her and she was repulsed by them, she'd be free to leave. And if she stayed - Christian smiled to himself and thought wryly that at least nightmares that made you wake up screaming were only about twice as embarrassing as vomiting into shrubbery after drunk dialing an almost-stranger.

He stripped down into tight black boxer briefs and slid under the covers next to Ana, stroking her head once before carefully arranging his body so as not to make contact with hers. Later, when she was awake, it would be her choice to allow him to touch her. For the time being, Christian buried his nose in her sweet-smelling hair, which was fanned out across her pillow, and fell asleep almost as soon as he'd blinked his eyes shut once.

* * *

**A/N:** You guys are great about giving me specific feedback when I leave questions for you in the Author's Notes! Thank you!

I know most of this chapter wasn't original, but it was a pretty essential event from the books, and I felt like it needed to be included, so I hope you didn't mind it. The next couple chapters are going to be similar in that they'll be mostly taken directly from the books, since a lot of significant things happen at this point in the books that I don't want to gloss over.

Just to clear things up for a few people who asked - when I do branch off from the plot of the original books later in this story, the focus will still be on Christian and Ana, and they will still end up together. That's not going to change, so no worries there. :)

And now, in the spirit of the holidays, and because you've all been so generous with reviews and I want to give something back, I'll take prompts for a one-chapter short story from anyone who wants to give me one! Just leave me a prompt about anything involving Christian (nothing relating to the third book, because I haven't read it yet), and I'll write it for you!

I hope you enjoyed the chapter!


	8. Settled

**Settled**

Christian woke up to the warmth of sunlight on his face and sat upright in bed before he could realize why he was so surprised. Glancing at the clock, he noticed that it was after 9:00, and he couldn't remember the last time he'd slept so late. Frowning, it struck him that he also couldn't recall the last time he hadn't woken up sweaty and screaming and frozen with fear from a nightmare. He looked down at Anastasia, who was curled up on her side, palms folded under her cheek and knees drawn up as if she was a small child, and a slow smile spread over Christian's face. Somehow, he knew that it was her, that just having her in his bed had freed him from the flashbacks for a night. The solidity of her slow breathing next to him made the past not matter.

Christian remembered the moment when Anastasia had beamed up at him in Clayton's, just after arranging the photo shoot, and he suddenly understood why it had been so disarming. In that instant, they'd been nothing but honest with each other - no insinuation, no teases, no innuendo, just their mutual joy at knowing it wasn't going to be the last time they'd see each other. It made them equals in a strange and unexpected way, and Christian wondered in amazement if he'd ever before met someone who was all at once so clueless and awkward and impressionable, yet at the same time so out of his league.

It wouldn't be so hard, Christian decided, to show her that he could take care of her. To prove to the both of them that he could be what she needed him to be, as much as he believed that she was already who he needed. The playroom was the easy part - learned maneuvers and practiced expectations. She'd pick it up easily enough, and if she didn't, Christian found himself not caring very much. The night that had just passed had been better than many of his ones in the playroom with submissives.

He wanted her, and it was strange to realize. He was used to needing submissives; he'd long ago come to accept, with the help of Dr. Flynn, that it was how he coped, and that, unlike his past, it was something he could come to terms with. But he'd never really _wanted_ a woman - yes, he liked the sound of a whip snapping in the air, the tension of limbs flexing against restraints, but the women themselves were expendable - mere warm bodies to take the place of the mother that had never been.

They even looked like the crack whore. But Ana didn't, and he found that the only difference it made was that he no longer cared.

She was already so much more than any of it - the playroom, the shadows of his past, everything he hated about himself. She sharpened his awareness, brought everything around him into piercing acuity. The fifteen other submissives had dulled his world, but Anastasia had taken it from him and handed it back reinvented, replete with new things like jealousy and desire and a sweet kind of uncertainty that was somehow tolerable.

Being able to find names and definitions for the whirlwind of revelation that had been his most recent weeks seemed to liberate Christian, and suddenly there was no pending decision, no conflict over it, just a wish to better know Anastasia and permit her to know him.

There was no need for immediate settlement. Anastasia seemed to have a knack for tumbling into his life regardless of whether or not he wanted her there, and Christian relaxed. He'd take his time with Anastasia and allow her to do the same.

He grinned in satisfaction as he looked down at Ana, her hair mussed and the white sheets tangled around her splayed legs, and decided that first he'd have to attend to the hangover she was sure to wake up with. He called down to room service, and when he was satisfied that they'd bring up sufficient fluids and something for a headache, he slipped quietly out of the suite and closed the door with a soft click on the girl asleep in his bed.

* * *

Christian had already consumed a cup of coffee from the hotel café downstairs before he thought to check the messages on his phone. His eyes widened in shock when he saw six missed calls and three messages from Elliot, and he marveled at how other people managed to sleep late on a regular basis without missing anything important.

"Hey, Christian," the first message said, the sounds of last night's bar audible in the background. "You must be having a mind blowing time with Ana, because you forgot to send me a ride, but I'm getting one with Kate. Laters."

Christian cursed himself lightly for forgetting - he'd been so preoccupied with Anastasia - and he moved onto the next message with some apprehension, noting that this one was from earlier in the morning.

"You better have been one lucky guy tonight, because you _always_ return calls. Kate wants to know where Anastasia is."

And then another from only half an hour ago, "Christian, hurry up and let me know what you've done with Ana, because Kate's about ready to hunt you down and demand to know in person. You could have let me know she's terrifying before you hooked me up with her last night." There was the sound of Kate's voice yelling something in a mostly-playful tone, and the noise of a slight scuffle, and then Elliot added, laughing, "I mean it, Christian, call me back. Her crazy protective streak apparently doesn't extend to me."

Christian rolled his eyes, left Elliot a text message that he hoped would appease Kate, and then dialed Taylor's number. Taylor's phone rang only one and half times before Taylor's voice came through crisply on the other end, and Christian remembered that it was the middle of the morning, though he'd only just woken up.

"Sir?"

"I need you to run some errands for me."

"What kind of errands?"

"Just shopping. For clothes."

"For Miss Steele?"

"Yes, something simple, she got drunk last night and I have her in my suite to sleep it off. She just needs a change of clothes."

"So not the usual?"

Christian's smiled thinned out into a hard line as he though of the usual fare Taylor returned with when he was sent out shopping for submissives' clothing. "Nothing like that. Wouldn't want to scare her off," Christian added dryly, his voice humorless despite the bland laugh in it.

"Very good. Anything else?"

"Make sure my nondisclosure agreement is up to date. I think I'll be using it soon."

"And the other contract?"

"Not yet. It needs some changes."

"Very good, sir."

Christian hung up and slid his BlackBerry into the pocket of the gray sweatpants he wore. He untangled the earbuds attached to his music player and pressed them into his ears before he went out onto the crowded Portland sidewalks, his muscles sliding easily into the familiar pattern of feet thumping against the sidewalk as he ran.

* * *

**A/N:** I know this chapter is really short, and there's barely any dialogue, and it's really introspective on Christian's part, but the next scene is a long one, so I wanted to break it up, and it didn't make sense to do it in any other place than here. So please excuse the lack of length and quality in this chapter. I hope it was okay in spite of all these things. Thanks for reading!

Some of you asked me to let you know when the next update will be... I wish I could answer, but I never really know when I'm going to have new material to update. I'm a senior in high school, so I'm pretty busy, and I don't know when I'll have time/inspiration to write. In the past few days I've been having some writer's block. Sorry I can't give any prediction of how frequent my updates will be - believe me, I wish I knew how fast I'd be able to write, too.


	9. Unscripted

**Unscripted**

It was hot out by the time Christian was back from his run, and as he entered his suite, he wanted nothing more than to change out of his sweaty clothes and shower. He knocked swiftly on the bedroom door and stepped through without hesitating, figuring that Anastasia was hung over enough to still be asleep.

He halted in the doorway when he saw Anastasia sitting by the bedside table, holding the glass of orange juice that Christian had ordered for her earlier. Anastasia's head snapped over to look at him, appearing just as surprised as Christian felt, and then she squeezed her eyes shut abruptly, shaking her head slightly as if to clear it.

Christian watched as a faint flush colored her cheeks and neck, and his surprise faded away as he took pity on her embarrassment. "Good morning, Anastasia," he said smoothly, being as professional as he could possibly sound, given their circumstances from the night before, because he knew it would put her at ease. "How are you feeling?"

Anastasia's eyes opened again and she glanced at him shyly from underneath dark lashes, but when she seemed no more capable of speaking than she'd been in her initial shock, Christian decided to shift the focus from her, tearing his gaze away from her and setting down the bag of clothes that he'd picked up from Taylor. He rubbed the sweaty back of his neck with a towel, and wished that she'd at least give an indication of whether she was frightened to be in a stranger's hotel room, or merely abashed by the previous night's escapades.

Finally she asked timidly, "How did I get here?"

Her question revealed nothing more about her potential discomfort with the situation, and Christian thought for a moment before answering, taking the time to sit next to her on the bed. There were so many truthful but wrong answers to her question - he could hardly say, _I took advantage of your inebriation to bring you home with me, even though the only interest you've shown in me was to drunk-dial me in the middle of the night_.

Definitely not.

Instead, he chose the most factual response and answered levelly, "After you passed out, I didn't want to risk the leather upholstery in my car taking you all the way to you apartment." _And I didn't want to risk your crazy photographer friend coming onto you again. _"So I brought you here."

"Did you put me to bed?"

Christian repressed a smile at the fact that she was choosing to be concerned about _that._ "Yes."

"Did I throw up again?" Her voice was even more weak.

"No," Christian lied, not wanting to discomfit her more than she'd already managed to do so herself.

"Did you undress me?"

"Yes." And this time, Christian couldn't hide his amusement at the gravity in Anastasia's voice. He struggled to remain impassive, and settled on allowing himself only to raise an eyebrow at her.

"We didn't-" The horror in her voice at the idea of having done anything unseemly made Christian's stomach drop unsettlingly in what felt like disappointment, and Christian brushed the troublesome feeling aside before he could dwell on the fact that he had no claim on Anastasia, no right - yet - to be disappointed.

"No, Anastasia, you were comatose," Christian assured her, telling himself that his voice was most certainly _not_ sharper out of defensiveness. "Necrophilia is not my thing. I like my women sentient and receptive."

"I'm so sorry."

Christian felt only slightly guilty when Anastasia looked up at him, eyes soft with worry that she'd offended him and his sense of respectability. He smiled, unable to stand her worrying unnecessarily, and remarked lightly, "It was a very diverting evening. Not one that I'll forget in a while."

The slight condescension in his tone seemed to annoy Anastasia, and she answered sourly, "You didn't have to track me down with whatever James Bond gadgetry you're developing for the highest bidder."

Christian refused to admit to himself that her assessment of him stung, and didn't allow his mind to touch upon the possibility that it offended him because it was true. _He'd pursued her, when he'd promised himself that he'd leave her alone unless _she_ wanted _him.

To distract himself from the gathering sensation of rejection in the pit of his stomach, Christian corrected her understanding of technology more peevishly than she'd earned, and didn't resist the urge to remind her that she'd been about to be taken advantage of by Jose. "From what I can remember, your weren't overly enthused about him pressing his suit." Christian hated the vulnerability that he could feel in his face, and let bitterness have free reign in his voice to make up for it.

But when Anastasia laughed at him unexpectedly, Christian was too surprised to be angry, and he couldn't help but smile at the carefree lilt of her laughter. "Which medieval chronicle did you escape from?" she giggled. "You sound like a courtly knight."

_She was so wrong. _And at the same time, it made Christian want to aspire to be a hero instead of a corrupting villain, and that desire made his voice gentle when he answered in the closest thing to honesty that he could give her. "Anastasia, I don't think so. Dark knight, maybe." His lips twisted into a small private smile, half sarcastic, half wistful.

The idea of being a knight, of caring for her, his maiden, was appealing, and the thought made Christian remember to ask, "Did you eat last night?"

Anastasia shook her head, seeming somewhat wary, but mostly appraising.

Christian tensed in frustration for a moment, and thought to himself that the dietary part of the contract would be perhaps the most helpful part for Anastasia. "You need to eat. That's why you were so ill. Honestly," Christian added, as though it should have been obvious to her, a simple solution, "it's drinking rule number one."

"Are you going to continue to scold me?" She was staring directly at him, no hint of bashfulness, just a slow, unwavering gaze, underlaid with a touch of challenge.

"Is that what I'm doing?" In Christian's world, a scolding was a lit cigarette pressed against his skin, or the bite of a whip against bared flesh.

"I think so."

_So they'd have a lot of acclimating to do if she signed the contract. _"You're lucky I'm just scolding you."

The words were hanging there in the air between them before Christian could realize what he'd said or try to retract it, and for a terrible moment he waited for the disgust and fear that he was sure would appear on Ana's face.

Instead, she remained perfectly neutral as she asked, "What do you mean?"

Christian answered almost without hesitation, possessed with a sudden need for her to know him, to know what he did, what he liked. "If you were mine, you wouldn't be able to sit down for a week after the stunt you pulled yesterday."Christian closed his eyes and shivered, hating the feeling of being at her mercy, of waiting for her to be repulsed by him, to leave him. He'd ceded all the power to her, and it made him feel more exposed than he had in all his years of being a submissive. "I hate to think what could have happened to you," he admitted. Christian opened his eyes again, hardening his gaze, trying to convince himself that it didn't matter as he waited for Ana's impending judgment.

Instead of looking horrified or even fearful, though, she was just staring back at him, seeming irritated. "I would have been fine," she said petulantly, voice defensive. "I was with Kate."

"And the photographer?"

"Jose just got out of line."

Christian's hand clenched into a fist, and he wondered wildly how he was ever going to protect someone who rushed into danger without even recognizing that that was what it was. "Well, the next time he gets out of line, maybe someone should teach him some manners."

"You are quite the disciplinarian." Her voice was dry, amused. Devoid of any of the disgust that Christian had feared.

"Oh, Anastasia, you have no idea," Christian sighed when he saw that the confession he'd just made had truly changed nothing in her. _Did she not understand? Or was it possible that she just didn't care?_ He permitted himself a relieved grin, and watched as Anastasia's pupils dilated, lips parting slightly as her cheeks flushed and her breath caught.

Christian tried not to arch his eyebrows in incredulity. He'd all but told her directly what he liked to do to women, and she was more interested in gazing lustfully at his smile like a girl who thought she was in a fairytale.

Christian was struck by the wild possibility that she'd sign the contract in that very moment if he asked her to, that she was too innocent and easily impressible to realize what it meant. "I'm going to have a shower," he announced, before he could take advantage of her inexperience and get her to agree to things she didn't understand. "Unless you'd like to shower first?"

Anastasia's inability to speak didn't fade, and Christian smiled, leaning forward to stroke the line of her cheekbone and skim the pad of his thumb over the soft curve of her lower lip. The urge to touch her was oddly free of guilt now.

"Breathe, Anastasia," he reminded her. She blinked and her chest rose suddenly with a breath, and Christian let her face go. "Breakfast will be here in fifteen minutes. You must be famished."

He left before she had a chance to argue with him, and ordered food from the bathroom, laughing lightly to himself when the girl who answered for room service stumbled over his peculiar bag-out tea order. The shower that he'd been so eager for earlier didn't seem important anymore, and Christian wished that he could have brought Anastasia in with him. Since he couldn't, he hurried along quickly, skipping shaving, and eagerly exited the bathroom.

When he reemerged, Anastasia wasn't in bed anymore. She was rummaging around the room, her legs long and creamy white below the hem of the clingy shirt that she'd worn to the bar the night before. Christian had only a moment to appreciate her figure before he saw the panic with which she was scanning the room, and he wondered for a terrible moment if she'd decided to run after all.

Just as Christian opened his mouth to apologize, not even yet sure what specifically he'd done wrong that had her so frightened, Anastasia spun around to face him, her eyes wide and surprised. Her body seemed to curve into itself just slightly when she became aware of his presence - bare legs crossing, shoulders angling inwards, head tilting down - and Christian realized that she was embarrassed of herself, of her body, and understood her frantic search.

"If you're looking for your jeans, I've sent them to the laundry." Christian tried not to look like he was undressing the clothed part of her body with his eyes. "They were spattered with your vomit," he added unnecessarily, hoping that saying it out loud would make her less appealing.

It didn't help at all.

"I sent Taylor out for another pair and some shoes. They're in the bag on the chair."

Anastasia looked at him for a moment, appearing so awkward that for a moment Christian wondered if he ought to be uncomfortable, too, but finally she muttered with little grace, "Um… I'll have a shower. Thanks." She didn't look very thankful, and her eyes didn't venture anywhere near Christian's face as she snatched up the bag of clothes and darted into the bathroom. Christian sighed and stared after her, wondering if an aversion to gifts was yet another way in which she liked to refuse to be taken care of. These were just clothes, and he smirked trying to imagine what her reaction to the vintage books must have looked like. She'd be a challenge once he began to show her what a real gift looked like.

Christian was growing concerned when twenty minutes had passed, he was fully clothed, and yet he could still hear the sound of water running in the bathroom. He hoped that she hadn't fallen asleep in the shower, because someone who was so mortified by passing out and being sick would surely hate being carried out of the shower while unconscious. It was a relief when room service arrived, because it gave Christian an excuse to tap on the bathroom door and call, "Breakfast is here."

"O-okay," Anastasia called back after a pause that was just a bit too long, her voice low and throaty in a way that made Christian's stomach twist with a hunger that wasn't for food.

Christian didn't move from his place next to the door as he heard the water shut off, and he closed his eyes as he heard the crinkle of Taylor's shopping bag and imagined Anastasia's reaction to the clothes. The underwear would suit her well, he thought - lacy and silky enough to make her feel pretty, perhaps take some shame out of her carriage, but modest enough in color and traditional enough in style for her not to be embarrassed to wear.

Christian tore himself from the idea of her in lingerie that he'd bought for her, and he forced himself to step away from the door and wander into the main room of the suite, because it would hardly do for her to find him waiting by the door. He seated himself at the dining table and didn't glance up from his newspaper when he felt her presence enter the room.

It wasn't until she exclaimed abruptly, "Crap, Kate!" that he allowed himself to look up at her, concealing his smirk behind the paper.

"She knows you're here and still alive," Christian assured her. "I texted Elliot." Anastasia stood motionless, looking dumbfounded as her facial expressions ranged from calculating to concerned to horrified. "Sit," Christian ordered, deciding that she was too wrapped up in the chaotic turn of events to function on her own.

Anastasia made her way slowly to the seat across the table that Christian had indicated and he watched as she gradually took in the sight of the impressive breakfast spread laid across the table.

"I didn't know what you liked, so I ordered a selection from the breakfast menu," Christian explained apologetically, agreeing with the expression on Ana's face that stated clearly that it was too much for any reasonable person to order. It didn't matter, though, Christian appeased himself; he'd see to it that she ate enough for none of the food to go to waste. She needed the quantity anyway.

"That's very profligate of you," she echoed his thoughts.

"Yes, it is."

It was a pleasure to watch her delicately select her food, and fascinating to see her preferences - she had a sweet tooth, Christian noted as she poured maple syrup over a stack of pancakes and let it soak through the fluffy layers. She was enjoying the meal, and Christian tried not to appear too satisfied with himself as he offered Ana tea and enjoyed the spark of happy recognition in her eyes at the bag of Twinings English Breakfast tea laid neatly on the edge of the teapot's saucer.

Anastasia curled her slender fingers around her cup of tea, and Christian looked her over carefully, wondering if she was cold, and if she'd take offense at being offered a robe. "You're hair's very damp," he observed disapprovingly as she seemed to shiver unconsciously, her wet locks soaking through the pale blue fabric of her shirt.

"I couldn't find the hair dryer," she answered flippantly, and for a moment Christian was annoyed at her outright refusal to ask for the things she needed - before he remembered that she wasn't a submissive and she didn't know yet to depend on him to provide anything she said she needed.

"Thank you for the clothes," Ana said softly, pulling Christian back to the present, sounding more genuine than she had earlier in the bedroom.

Christian smiled warmly; she was trying, after all, to be agreeable, and he answered truthfully, "It's a pleasure, Anastasia. That color suits you." When she appeared abashed, Christian's smile faded slightly, and he admonished, "You know, you really should learn to take a compliment."

"I should give you money for these clothes," she said by way of response, and if he didn't know better, Christian would have thought that she'd said so just to be deliberately contrary. "You've already given me the books, which, of course, I can't accept." _She_ can't_?_ _Hasn't anyone ever told her that it's rude to reject a gift? _And as if she didn't realize what she was doing, Ana went on, "But these clothes… please let me pay you back."

Christian would have snapped at her if it weren't for the hopeful, eager smile that accompanied her words, and he saw that she'd just never had anybody who treated her as well as she deserved, that in the beginning he'd just have to learn not to expect her to be used to having things. "Anastasia, trust me, I can afford it."

"That's not the point," she said, as if he was being dense. "Why should you buy these things for me?"

_Because that's how a BDSM relationship works. _"Because I can." It was close enough to being the truth, as close as he could get at the moment, and Christian's eyes gleamed eagerly.

"Just because you can doesn't mean that you should."

_But I need to_, Christian wanted to tell her, to have her understand it the way she seemed to instinctively understand other things, but he reminded himself that Ana was still talking about clothes, and he kept his mouth shut and flashed his eyes at her instead.

"Why did you send me the books, Christian?" Anastasia's voice was tender, nothing like it had been last night when she'd asked the same question, and Christian sighed.

_Because I want you._

_Because I can't have you._

_Because you shouldn't want me._

_Because you do._

There was no good answer.

"Well, when you were nearly run over by the cyclist -" Christian swallowed and tried to decide how truthful he was going to be. He might as well leave nothing behind - after all, this was nothing compared to the looming necessity that he tell her about the playroom and all that it entailed doing. "- and I was holding you," he continued finally, "and you were looking up at me - all 'kiss me, kiss me, Christian' -" Christian glanced at Ana, and her desire was reflected back at him in her eyes, " - I felt I owed you an apology and a warning."

Christian ran a shaky hand through his hair and tried to remind himself that he didn't get nervous. _This is what you want._ _You want her to know you, and for her to want you in spite of it. So let her know you. _"Anastasia, I'm not a hearts and flowers kind of man… I don't do romance. My tastes are very singular." Christian paused and tried not to shudder, tried to pretend that he didn't feel as bare and helpless as he had when Elena had first discovered the scars on his chest and had run her fingers over them in spite of his pleas. It was the last time he'd ever begged.

"You should steer clear of me," Christian finished, forcing himself to push aside the paralyzing feeling of vulnerability. He looked up fearfully at Ana, expecting revulsion, or at least confusion, when he reminded himself that he wasn't being as explicit in his words as he felt. Instead, there was only concern in Ana's eyes, and a kind of sorrow that Christian knew was for him. She could see it, he knew she could, how he was entirely lost, lost as he tried to keep the truth from pouring out of him, because he knew that he wasn't strong enough to bear her knowing it, that she probably wasn't strong enough either.

Christian closed his eyes and hated himself for being weak enough to say the words that he knew were coming. Truth like this was dangerous. It gave people the power to destroy you. But looking into Ana's eyes, he couldn't quite know that he'd really mind it so much if she did destroy him. "There's something about you, though," he admitted, the words an act of submission to her as he laid his vulnerability at her feet, "and I'm finding it impossible to stay away. But I guess you've figured that out already." His voiceless was hopeless as he finished.

_There. She knows what you want. She can crush you now. She's in control. You're at her whim, and you don't have a safe word._

Instead, Anastasia answered quietly, but so surely, so tenderly. "Then don't."

Her two words were like a lifeline, and Christian's eyes flew open in amazement, his relief so sharp that it was painful, until he remembered that lifelines can snap. "You don't know what you're saying."

He could see in her face that she didn't know how literally he meant that, and she said bravely, "Enlighten me, then."

_It's so simple for her. Why can't it be that simple for you?_ And for once, it was Christian, not Anastasia, who couldn't speak.

"You're not celibate, then?" she finally inquired when he'd made it plain that he couldn't talk, and Christian felt like a submissive again, being guided through the unknown that was spread out before them both, because somehow Anastasia knew that he was too overwhelmed to navigate it alone.

"No, Anastasia, I'm not celibate," Christian managed to answer, thinking vaguely that she had a penchant for asking inappropriate questions.

Ana flushed violently, and Christian began to regain control of himself as their individual insecurities evened out the gap between them and made them equals again - neither one a dominant.

"What are your plans for the next few days?" Christian's voice was tense, and he wondered if everybody felt like this when they tried to invite a girl to their house. He supposed they didn't, but then everybody didn't have a first date that ended in them not being normal enough to kiss the girl goodbye when she was right there in their arms, and a first sleepover for which only one of them was conscious.

"I'm working today, from midday. What time is it?"

"It's just after ten," Christian answered patiently. "You've plenty of time. What about tomorrow?" He leaned forward, eager, and clasped his hands under his chin.

"Kate and I are going to start packing. We're moving to Seattle next weekend, and I'm working at Clayton's all this week."

That sparked Christian's interest, and he asked curiously - half pleased, half disappointed - "You have a place in Seattle already?"

"Yes."

"Where?"

"I can't remember the address. It's in the Pike Market District."

"Not far from me." The disappointment abated. "So what are you going to do for work in Seattle?"

Ana frowned, seeming inexplicably annoyed, and answered with a touch of coolness, "I've applied for some internships. I'm waiting to hear."

Christian wondered disapprovingly if she was being vague on purpose and probed, "Have you applied to my company as I suggested?"

"Um… no."

It was plain in her voice that she hadn't considered it seriously at all. "And what's wrong with my company?" In another instance, Christian might have been offended that she was throwing away an employment opportunity for which others would scramble, but he couldn't manage to be anything but amused by the way she stared at him as if he'd just asked a stupid question.

"Your company or your _company_?"

She'd be a good editor when she got a job that did suit her, Christian decided - she was witty and liked to correct to people. Christian grinned back at Ana, who was smiling superiorly at him across the table, pleased with herself, and he chided, "Are you smirking at me, Miss Steele?"

His playful question had the opposite of his desired effect, though, because she flushed and looked down at her lap, biting her lip, either intimidated or shy or… _attracted to him?_

Christian decided to risk the slim possibility that it was the last option, and whispered huskily, "I'd like to bite that lip."

Ana's eyes flashed up to his at that, wide and shocked and perhaps even eager, and Christian narrowed his eyes at her, pleased with her reaction. "Why don't you?" Her voice was low and needy and made Christian want to lift her up onto the dining table and bend her over it and kiss her pink lips, down her white throat, along the line of her collarbone, over the soft curve of her shoulder.

Instead he answered, "Because I'm not going to touch you, Anastasia - not until I have your written consent to do so." He smiled at her, a little hopeful, a little apologetic.

"What does that mean?" Her voice was at its normal pitch again, and Christian sighed, the moment of wistful opportunity over.

"Exactly what I say," he tried to tell her. It was clear in Anastasia's face that she didn't understand, he couldn't expect her to, and Christian shook his head, at a loss for how he could tell her in a way that wouldn't make her leave. And she'd need to sign an NDA first, Christian reminded himself, trying to sort out his scattered priorities. "I need to show you, Anastasia," he said finally, when he failed to come up with anything that would better satiate her confusion and curiosity. "What time do you finish work this evening?"

"About eight."

Christian hesitated, part of him wanting to prolong the moments during which she'd believe that he was a knight in shining armor, there to save her from speeding cyclists and overly amorous friends. But the more dominant part of him wanted to be there to do a lot of other things, and there was nothing left but to show her the worst of himself.

He shook his head slightly, wondering vaguely when exactly he'd become embarrassed of what he did, and offered Ana, "Well, we could go to Seattle this evening or next Saturday for dinner at my place, and I'll acquaint you with the facts then. The choice is yours."

He waited impatiently for an answer, realizing that, from now on, with everything, the choice would always be hers.

"Why can't you tell me now?" Impatience didn't entirely cover the eagerness behind her question.

"Because I'm enjoying my breakfast," Christian made excuse, even though he hadn't thought about touching his food since he'd wanted to kiss her, "and your company. Once you're enlightened, you probably won't want to see me again." It was painful to admit, and Christian hated that.

Anastasia was silent, biting her lip and looking thoughtful and flushing for some bizarre reason and _not answering_, and Christian hated that, too. "Tonight," she said finally.

Christian had thought he'd be eager, but somehow he found himself wishing that she hadn't picked the sooner date. "Like Eve, you're so quick to eat from the tree of knowledge." _And like Eve, you'll lose your innocence if you do._

Christian managed a superior smirk in spite of his growing unease, and was rewarded by Ana grinning and teasing, "Are you smirking at me, Mr. Grey?"

_You don't know what you're doing. This isn't all fun and laughter._ Instead of answering, afraid of what he'd say, Christian took his BlackBerry from the table and pressed the second speed dial button. "Taylor. I'm going to need Charlie Tango."

"When, sir?"

"From Portland, at, say… twenty thirty."

"I'll get a pilot ready?"

"No, standby at Escala."

"How long, sir?"

"All night." Anastasia's eyes widened at that, and Christian tried to give her a reassuring smiled.

"You're flying?"

"Yes. On call tomorrow morning. I'll pilot from Portland to Seattle. Standby pilot from twenty-two thirty."

"Very good, sir. I'll have it ready."

Christian hung up and clasped his hands on the table, looking across at Ana, who appeared overwhelmed and partly awed, but mostly judgmental.

"Do people always do what you tell them?"

"Usually, if they want to keep their jobs," Christian told her seriously, wondering how long it would take for her to want to do as he told her, too. _Or_, his mind continued to spiral, _if she'll agree to try in the first place._

Christian saw Anastasia's waiting expression and realized that she'd asked him a question_ - "And if they don't work for you?"_

It was as if she had known what he was thinking. "Oh, I can be very persuasive, Anastasia," he warned her. "You should finish your breakfast. And then I'll drop you off at home. I'll pick you up at Clayton's at eight when you finish. We'll fly up to Seattle."

Anastasia's face was pale, her eyes large as she processed his words. Finally she asked, voice small, "Fly?"

"Yes. I have a helicopter."

"We'll go by helicopter to Seattle." She was incredulous.

"Yes." Christian looked at her warily.

"Why?"

A wide, triumphant grin split across Christian's face. "Because I can. Finish your breakfast."

Ana looked down at her plate of pancakes, but instead of eating, she licked her lower lip slowly and flushed deeply and for no apparent reason.

"Eat."

Ana looked up at him, surprised and appearing a little lost, and Christian took a deep breath and said more than he'd ever told anyone since Elena. "Anastasia, I have an issue with wasted food." His voice grew more demanding as he repeated, "Eat."

"I can't eat all this." Anastasia gestured at the food laid across the table.

"Eat what's on your plate," Christian sighed, feeling like he was talking to a child. "If you'd eaten properly yesterday, you wouldn't be here, and I wouldn't be declaring my hand so soon." _Or at all._ Christian frowned at the unpleasant thought.

Anastasia looked like she was going to argue, but after a long moment, she lifted her fork again and ate.

Christian closed his eyes and remembered unwillingly a dark room and the crack whore's pimp throwing at him an empty red bowl that Christian had held up pleadingly just a moment before. He remembered the pimp growling darkly, _Shut up your whining. _And then, to the crack whore, _What a pussy. The little bastard's an embarrassment. Why'd you have to go and get knocked up? Whore… this is your fault…_ _your fault… always your fault._ And there had been the then-familiar sound of a foil packet tearing, and Christian had pressed his hands over his ears and bit down hard on his tongue to block out the sounds that his mother was making, and he'd made sure to remember never again to ask the pimp for food.

Anastasia laughed quietly to herself, and the sound drew Christian out of the abyss of his own mind. "What's so funny?" he asked, opening his eyes.

Ana shook her head, but popped the last bit of pancake into her mouth, so Christian let it go and approved, "Good girl. I'll take you home when you've dried your hair. I don't want you getting ill."

Ana nodded and set off towards the bedroom, but she halted suddenly, halfway there, and turned back to Christian, who was still seated at the dining table. "Where did you sleep last night?"

"In my bed." He looked at her fearfully, waiting to see if she was going to be angry. _How am I supposed to know the etiquette for drunk girls who are asleep in my bed?_

But all Ana said was, "Oh."

"Yes, it was quite a novelty for me, too." He offered a small smile, but Ana was too busy blushing and fiddling with her own hands to return it.

"Not having… sex," she clarified.

"No." Christian tried not remember the dark room again as he took a deep breath and prepared himself for his next words. Tried not to remember staring at the pimp's body stretched out over the crack whore's, both of them looking strangely peaceful in their sleep after a lot of tearing foil and piercing screams and harsh-sounding words. Tried not to remember wishing that his mother would let _him _sleep next to her sometimes, instead of always choosing the pimp. "Sleeping with someone," Christian clarified for Anastasia, trying not to let any of the bitterness and hate from the memory seep into his voice.

He lifted his newspaper from the table and hid himself in it, making it clear that the conversation was over, and thankfully Anastasia understood and continued into the bedroom without another word.

* * *

Ana looked only marginally tidier when she emerged shortly afterwards, but Christian smiled, not minding it. She carried herself as if she didn't know how stunning she was, even without fancy clothes or coifed hair, and he liked that the responsibility of showing her how beautiful she was had fallen to him. "After you, Miss Steele," he gestured, seeing her out the door of their suite and leading the way down the corridor to the elevator.

She glanced shyly up at him, and Christian couldn't help but smirk suggestively at her as they both recalled the kissing couple they'd interrupted in the last elevator they'd ridden together. Once the metal doors slid shut and Christian pressed the button for the ground floor, though, Christian knew that any suggestive gestures were a mistake.

Attraction crackled between them, and Christian yearned to feel Anastasia's lips under his, and he wanted it now. It was his last chance to do so before everything would change. Because he knew it was too much to hope for that they could have the innocence of an impassioned, spontaneous first kiss once he'd shown Ana the contract and the playroom and all of it. Forever after that, his time with her would be preplanned and scripted, if he had time with her at all, and for once Christian wished that the things he liked to do weren't so dangerous that they required scripting.

He'd restrained himself all through the night, and it hadn't been difficult, because Anastasia had needed rest and food and care, and he hadn't thought beyond giving her that. But now, all Ana wanted was him, he could feel it, her neediness was almost tangible, and he was aching for her, too.

The elevator bells chimed as they passed floor after floor, and Christian heard his chances slipping away. He just wanted the feel of having kissed her - once - to carry with him once she discovered who he really was and ran. He wasn't hurting her. The memory of a kiss was something only he would miss once she was gone.

"Oh, fuck the paperwork," he growled, furious at himself for giving in, even as he whirled around on Anastasia and pressed her to the wall of the elevator. She looked up at him, her eyes wide and surprised but also exultant and lustful, and Christian's hips thrust against her eagerly, holding her securely in place as his lips found hers.

He could sense her hands coming up towards his chest, and Christian grasped both her wrists firmly in only one of his hands and moved them safely up and away, pinning them above her head. He pushed away the sudden fear that had blossomed in his stomach when her hands had come so close to touching him, and moaned into her mouth in both pain and pleasure, trying to forget it, telling himself that he was being stupid, that she wasn't the crack whore or the pimp. She was Ana. He could feel her, smell her, even taste her, and he wanted to melt into her. He moved his free hand out of her hair, where it had been tangled, and cupped it around her cheek, tilting her face up to his. Her lips opened for him, and Christian was able to lose himself in her.

* * *

**A/N:** I didn't get very many reviews for the last chapter. I know at the moment I'm not doing anything original, so I can understand why I might not be getting a lot of feedback, but can we try for a couple more reviews this time, please? I love you people who come back to leave me a little note of feedback after every single chapter - it's great to be able to count on you.

I've planned out the next couple chapters, and the plot change that you've been waiting for is just three chapters away... we're almost there! Originally I didn't plan for it to come until later, but I just couldn't wait to be able to do my own dialogue, so I switched things up. I hope you guys like it when you get there, I'm nervous about it.

Thanks for reading!


	10. Exceptional

**Exceptional**

It was late in the morning by the time Christian returned to the Heathman with Elliot after dropping Anastasia off at her apartment, and he hadn't even gotten to the elevator when Elliot, who'd been lagging behind, called, "Christian, wait!"

"What?" Christian turned back to see Elliot examining a brochure, taken from a stack on a round, glossy table in the lobby. "What's that?"

"D'you want to go hiking?"

"_What?_"

"Look!" Elliot pointed enthusiastically at the cover of the brochure he held, and Christian stepped closer to see printed in tacky letters across the top, "Visit Oregon the _Right_ Way - Local Cuisine, White Water Rafting, Fishing, and so Much More!" On the cover were a pair of hikers, replete with heavy-duty boots and overstuffed backpacks.

"Exactly what kind of cuisine would be something you could only get in Portland, Oregon?" Christian asked, raising his eyebrows. "Come on, Elliot, you don't actually want to do this."

"Why not?" Elliot beamed at Christian, rolling forward eagerly onto the balls of his feet.

"Because I have work to do. Because I'm seeing Anastasia at eight. Because hiking is boring. Because halfway through you'll decide you're hungry and be too lazy to walk back and I'll have to half-drag you the whole way we came until we find a place to eat. So many reasons."

"We're going hiking!"

"What part of what I just said gave you that impression?"

Elliot punched Christian lightly in the shoulder, his smile not in the least dampened. "The part where I'm your big brother, and therefore I get to make you do things you think you'll hate, so that I can say 'I told you so' after when you realize it was awesome."

"I don't think the word 'awesome' applies to hiking."

"Please, Christian?" Christian narrowed his eyes at Elliot, but couldn't resist breaking into laughter when Elliot continued, flicking the brochure for effect, "We have to make the most of this while we're still in Portland!"

"You do realize that you can fly to Portland from Seattle in an hour whenever you want, don't you?"

"You're no fun," Elliot complained.

With that admission, Christian decided he'd held out long enough and gave in, as he'd known he would. "Fine."

"Really?"

"Not if you keep looking like you're about to start jumping up and down."

"Let's go," Elliot beamed, ignoring Christian's threat.

* * *

When Christian got back to the hotel, there was a large manila envelope waiting for him at the reception desk. He took it up to his suite before opening it, knowing that inside would be a notarized nondisclosure agreement. Along with it was an old copy of the playroom contract, dated from several months ago.

He flipped through the contract and tried to find the parts Anastasia would object to. She wouldn't mind the toys from the playroom, he decided, once she learned to trust him. Once she realized that her fear was more painful than any of the actual instruments there. She would try to break the more basic terms of the agreement, Christian thought, as he scanned the pages of food, sleep, and exercise requirements, but that was something to which he could acquiesce. He drew out a pen and went over the document, making corrections as he went, shortening the personal training sessions to four, rather than five, times per week, and smirking as he added a line under "Personal Safety" that prohibited excessive drinking.

He'd just faxed the document to his lawyer for final certification when his BlackBerry buzzed in his pocket, and he snatched it up quickly, already half convinced that it was Anastasia calling to say that she'd come to her senses and decided to cancel. Instead, it was Elena, and Christian smiled, relieved.

"Elena," he greeted her. "I'm hearing from you a lot lately."

"I had to check in on how your stay in Portland was going." Even after all this time, Christian could still hear the tone of dominance in her voice, a master supervising her submissive.

"You mean you wanted to check in on how it's going with Anastasia." He'd told Elena about Ana before he'd even mentioned her to Dr. Flynn, and Elena's concern had been instantly clear.

"You know me too well."

"She's seeing me in Seattle tonight." Christian couldn't help but sound proud.

"So Anastasia agreed? To the contract? You know, I must confess, I didn't think she would."

"No," Christian sighed, feeling like a boy caught cheating on an exam. _So much for pride_. "I haven't showed her the contract yet."

"That's not like you." Disapproval rang in Elena's voice, the disappointment of a mentor seeing their student wander astray.

"I know." Christian sighed and ran a hand through his hair, wishing that, just for once, she'd keep her observations to herself.

"You're changing. You never bring them home unless they've already agreed."

"I'm not changing," Christian said defensively. "I'm… making an exception."

"Exactly. You don't make exceptions."

"There's nothing wrong with bringing her home first." Christian's voice was clipped.

"Really? Have you planned ahead at all? She's unaware of your needs, your desires… what's going to happen when you turn out not to be what she expects at all? Not even normal people bring women home on the second date, Christian."

"I'm well aware of what _normal_ people do." Christian tried not to sound like it wasn't slightly offensive to be referred to as abnormal, even if it _was_ true.

"So you see that it won't do to take her back to Seattle."

"I've made up my mind, Elena." Christian's tone was a warning. "You know I don't make decisions unless I'm sure."

"A few weeks ago I'd have known that, but now…" Elena trailed off, and Christian could imagine her shaking her head in disapproval. "You haven't answered me. Does she know what you need from a partner?"

"She knows that I don't want a romance."

"Are you sure? Because, the way you're acting, you'd think you're _looking_ for a romance."

"For Christ's sake, Elena, don't be so extreme. She was at my hotel this morning, she had questions, and I told her I'd answer them soon. I just happen to be going to answer them at my house."

There was silence, and Christian's brow furrowed. "Elena?"

"She was at your _hotel_? Christian, do you want me to come down there, talk some sense into you?"

"No, it wasn't-"

"Darling," - Christian grimaced at her old term of endearment, usually used only during punishments - "you can't just have a one-night stand with a woman and expect everything to be okay afterwards. You didn't have her sign the contract, god knows if you even remembered to have her sign an NDA first-"

"_Stop it_." Christian's voice was sharp and cutting, and it broke Elena's speech off immediately. "I haven't forgotten the paperwork. I told her I wouldn't touch her until I have her written permission." Christian paused for a moment and decided not to mention that he'd kissed her. "She's aware that I'm not a normal man. She's not stupid, and she's not a gossip. I received the NDA from my staff not five minutes ago, and I'll have her sign it tonight before we go any further, not that my legal business is any of your's."

"But-"

"_And I didn't have a one-night stand with her_," he finished forcefully.

"Then what were you doing?"

"She was drunk. I took her back to the hotel before she had time to do something moronic, and I let her sleep it off."

"Oh, Christian," Elena sighed lightly. "I'm going to fly down, okay? I won't be long. You need help."

"What's wrong with what I did? You're supposed to take care of your submissives, too, you know, not just enjoy their bodies. I'd like to think you'd have done the same for me, when we were younger."

"When we were younger, you had the good sense not to get wasted, just as you had the sense not to get involved with a woman without a contract, and if you didn't, I'd have paddled it into you. What hotel are you staying in?"

"Don't be ridiculous, you don't need to-"

"You'll be in the Heathman, it's the only one high-class enough. I'll be there soon, alright?"

"To paddle some sense into me?" Christian's voice was sarcastic.

He was hoping for something equally sarcastic on her end, something to show that she wasn't blowing the situation out of proportion as sincerely as she seemed to be doing, but there was only a click as she hung up her phone.

* * *

"You don't need to be here," Christian said, just over an hour later, standing in his doorway and not returning the squeeze Elena gave to both his hands. "In fact, I'd rather you weren't."

"Don't be rude," she chastised, brushing past him. "Didn't Grace ever teach you that it's only polite to ask a lady inside and offer her a drink?"

"Yes, but then you came along and taught me a lot of other things that weren't quite so gentlemanly," Christian smiled, pouring Elena a glass of Sauterne and handing it to her with resignation as he took a seat next her on the couch. "What do you want? I have to be on my way to pick up Ana at a quarter to eight."

"If I do any good here, you won't be on your way at all. You need to let Anastasia go, okay? It was a good fantasy, but you've complicated her too much. Find someone else, and keep it straightforward this time. Don't mess around with feelings."

"Feelings?" Christian raised his eyebrows. "I don't have feelings for her," he clarified quickly, not giving himself an opportunity to wonder if he did.

"She's a girl, okay? Not even out of college yet. You show up with all your money and beautiful body - I know you don't think you're all that, but, trust me, you are - and you sweep her off her feet and act like you're her prince charming, there to save her from the bad guys."

Christian shook his head, trying not to remember Ana's words, _"Which medieval chronicle did you escape from? You sound like a courtly knight."_

"She's going to have expectations, Christian," Elena continued, misinterpreting his negative gesture as disagreement. "Expectations that you're not able to meet."

It was everything that had made Christian try to resist Ana in the beginning, verbalized out loud now, and Christian tried not to believe Elena's words, tried to keep his voice level as he countered, "Then I'll let her decide that. That's what submission is all about, remember? Choices. If she doesn't want what I am, then she'll leave. It's not as complicated as you make it sound."

"And will you be able to deal with it, if she does leave? You know, I'm getting worried about you, darling." Elena raised her hand and stroked his cheek, and Christian struggled not to lean instinctively out of her touch, when coupled with that word, _darling_. "The way you talk, someone might think you're attached to her. It's not good."

"Dr. Flynn suggested that I pursue the things I want, and if Ana isn't interested, then that's how it'll be." Christian looked down, not quite meeting Elena's gaze as he directly acknowledged, for the first time aloud, that he wanted Ana.

"Well that goes to show that Dr. Flynn isn't as good as you thought he was. But really, you couldn't expect him to understand. He can't know, unless he's been a part of it. Not the way I know."

"Do you know, though?" Christian mused, suddenly. "You've never been a submissive."

"I've subbed for you, Christian," Elena said, surprised. "Do you need… I thought we agreed that that wasn't wise for us, but if that's what you-"

"No!" Christian paused, taken aback by his own vehemence, and continued more calmly, "No, but that's exactly it. You subbed for me, but you weren't _a submissive_. The whole time, we both knew that you were always the dominant."

"You were in control, you could have done anything. I'm sorry if I didn't make it clear-"

"It's not the same. Physically, yes, you let me dominate you, but psychologically, you were still the dominate and I was the submissive."

"Is this some nonsense your psychologist has given you?"

Christian smirked. "No, it's nonsense I came up with all on my own."

Elena laughed with him, but when Christian sobered, he said, "I'm bringing Ana to Seattle with me tonight."

"It's a mistake."

"It's what I need."

"At least have her sign the things here in Portland, before you leave. So if it's too much for her, she can leave without you having gotten too involved. It'll be better that way, a clean break."

"I _want _her at home before I tell her everything. On purpose. I want her to _know _me, before she reads about it on a piece of paper. It's not the same."

"You've never needed this before."

Christian tried to be annoyed at her refusal to accept what he didn't know how to express in words, but there was nothing but genuine concern in Elena's eyes, and he couldn't muster any anger towards it. She knew him so well, but this was new, even to him, and he couldn't expect her to understand it when he hardly could. "Needs change."

* * *

**A/N:** Thanks for the reviews for the last chapter! You guys are great, I asked for some more feedback and you gave me plenty! I really appreciate it. I had a lot of fun with Elena's character for this chapter, so I hope you had a good time reading it.

Tomorrow (January 13th) is my 17th birthday, so review for my birthday, please?


	11. Threshold

**Threshold**

The sun was setting when Christian landed Charlie Tango on the rooftop of his home, and as the exhilaration from flying wore off, he struggled to keep his nerves at bay. Ana, he saw, was still in awe from the helicopter flight, and he reached over to pull off her headphones, wary, as if she was a wild animal that he wanted not to spook. Her eyes were wide and dazed, as if her mind hadn't quite caught up with her body, and he smiled and brushed the back of his fingers lightly down her cheek.

"We're here."

Her gaze flickered up to his, and Christian tried to smile, as if his stomach wasn't in knots. _Maybe Elena was right. It shouldn't be this hard to bring a sub home. You can't be in control when you're nervous. You can't take care of her when you're nervous._

He set his jaw determinedly and tried to feel like he was in charge of what was happening to him. Unbuckling the straps of her seat harness helped - it was almost like dominating her, to feel her unmoving but ever-watchful beneath his fingers, helpless to undo the tangle of buckles and snaps on her own.

When her limbs were free, he tipped his head forward to hers, breathing her in, his senses tight and tingling just from their proximity. Their noses were nearly touching. He wanted to reach up and take her face in his hands before he spoke his next words, but he restrained himself, because she needed to hear it, and he couldn't distract her. "You don't have to do anything you don't want to do." And suddenly, he realized that _he _didn't want her to do anything she didn't want to, either. He had prepared himself for wishing that he could push for more, but there she was before him - so frighteningly breakable - and the idea of forcing anything on her felt dirty and repulsive.

She was eager, though; it was plain as her breath caught and her eyes widened fractionally, and in a moment of panic, Christian wondered if she even knew what her own boundaries were. She was why control was necessary, he saw. Because if she didn't know herself, then the responsibility to make decisions was his alone.

"You know that, don't you?" Christian urged, trying to make her understand that he meant his warning to be taken immediately, literally. His eyes burned into hers, and he tried to make her see that he needed this from her, that he needed her to understand herself and him well enough to not allow him to break her.

"I'd never do anything I didn't want to do, Christian."

They were the words he'd needed, but they lacked her usual self-righteous indignation that he'd been hoping for.

He nodded at her and gave her a skeptical stare before deciding it was the most assurance he could get, now, when she still knew nothing. He hopped down from the helicopter and offered her his hand to help her onto the helipad. He half expected her to brush it away and insist on doing things her own way, but she seemed to be in a particularly pliant mood - _that's dangerous, watch out for it_, he reminded himself - and she allowed him to steady her as she jumped onto the helipad.

It was windy on the rooftop, and it gave Christian an excuse to draw her into his arms and tuck her away safely into the warmth of his body to shield her. He tried not to look at Ana during the elevator ride to his floor - reminding himself that in a couple hours, it would hardly matter, because he'd know if he was allowed to kiss her - but it was difficult to ignore her when he still had his arm around her waist and she was endlessly reflected in every glass panel that surrounded them.

The elevator came to a stop with a _ding_ and Christian released Ana's waist and took her hand instead, leading her into the apartment. He paused just inside the great room and looked anxiously to Anastasia.

She seemed awe-struck again, speechless as she stared, and Christian was relieved to see that she was amazed, rather than repulsed, by the extravagance. Her eyes lingered on the large bouquet of white flowers that he'd had Mrs. Jones arrange on the low center table, and Christian grinned, pleased with his attempt to be a _"hearts and flowers"_ man.

"Can I take your jacket?"

His hands were ready on Anastasia's shoulder's, but she shook her head, and Christian sighed. Would it really be so difficult for her to just let him be a gentleman?

"Would you like a drink?" he tried again.

This time, she did turn to gaze at him, but her expression was one of disbelief as she blinked at him slowly, incredulous and silent.

"I'm going to have a glass of white wine," he informed her, wondering what was wrong with her that she couldn't just answer or at least nod her head and make this slightly easier for him. "Would you like to join me?"

He raised his eyebrows, expectant, and this time Ana answered, "Yes, please."

Her voice was almost a whisper, and Christian tried to make himself less imposing, shrugging off his jacket and laying it over the back of a chair. When he felt, more than heard, Ana follow him into the kitchen, he glanced over and asked, "Pouilly Fume okay with you?"

"I know nothing about wine, Christian," she said, her voice making it plain that she thought it ought to have been obvious to him.

_Does she not see that I'm trying to be courteous?_

"I'm sure it will be fine," Ana sighed, seeming at a loss in the face of the finery around her.

"Here," he offered Ana a glass, and watched as she sipped. Her eyes were large, she was very clearly out of her depth, yet at the same time, she was very still and self-possessed, entirely in control of herself and her reactions.

"You're very quiet, and you're not even blushing," Christian observed aloud. "In fact, I think this is the palest I've ever seen you, Anastasia." He frowned, wishing he could set her at ease. "Are you hungry?" It was a silly, useless question, he realized as soon as he'd said it, but it had been the first option to come to his mind.

She shook her head, hardly seeming to have heard him. "It's a very big place you have here."

"Big?" _Is that really all that's bothering her? With everything I've already told her?_

"Big." She nodded definitively.

"It's big." He gave her a wary stare, wondering what was coming next. She was so off-putting.

"Do you play?"

For a moment, Christian was thinking wildly of the playroom, and wondering how she'd jumped to that startlingly correct conclusion, but Ana jerked her chin at something beyond him, and he turned and caught sight of the piano.

"Yes."

"Well?"

_Is this another interview?_ "Yes."

"Of course you do." She seemed peeved - _then why had she asked?_ - and continued, "Is there anything you can't do well?"

_Talk to you._

_Be normal._

"Yes… a few things."

Anastasia seemed to accept this, because her eyes swept the room for a second survey, and Christian, at a loss for what was the next expected thing to do, wondered if this was why Elena had said it was a poor idea to bring Ana home. "Do you want to sit?"

He was surprised when she decided to cooperate and nodded her assent, and he settled her on the couch. She remained silent, and Christian watched patiently until a private smile played across her lips and he could contain his curiosity no longer. "What's so amusing?"

"Why did you give me _Tess of the d'Urbervilles_, specifically?"

Christian tried not to be annoyed by her lack of a real answer and lied easily, "Well, you said you liked Thomas Hardy."

"Is that the only reason?"

_Of course not, silly girl._

"It seemed appropriate," Christian answered reluctantly, wondering if this was going to be his lead-in to saying, _So, want to sign a contract saying you'll let me dominate you?_ "I could hold you to some impossibly high ideal like Angel Clare…" _- except I obviously can't, because here you are, and it's because I couldn't leave you alone - _"or debase you completely like Alec d'Urberville."

"If there are only two choices, I'll take the debasement," Anastasia whispered throatily, and Christian was sure that, despite her apparent inexperience, she had definitely intended her tone to be as seductive as it was.

His breath caught eagerly in his throat, and Christian tried to look anywhere but at her. "Anastasia, stop biting your lip, please. It's very distracting."

She seemed pleased with his admission, and Christian frowned in disapproval and fear. "You don't know what you're saying."

"That's why I'm here."

"Yes," Christian acknowledged unwillingly, hating that they'd come around to this point so quickly. She could be gone within five minutes, where just an instant ago, her stay was blissfully indefinite. "Would you excuse me for a moment?"

When Christian returned, nondisclosure agreement in hand, Anastasia was still staring after him, through the doorway he'd left by, and Christian wished that she'd chosen to be distracted by the splendor of the apartment again. Instead, she met his tense gaze with a determined one, and he took a seat next to her, showing her the document and explaining the terms of it to her.

She took hardly a moment to say, "Okay. I'll sign," and a very small part of Christian wanted to scream _no!_ and send her safely home on Charlie Tango.

The rest of him gave her a pen from the coffee table at their feet.

"Aren't you even going to read it?" Her trust in him was appalling.

"No."

"Anastasia, you should always read anything you sign."

She looked up at him, very slowly and deliberately, as if he was mentally challenged and explained, "Christian, what you fail to understand is that I wouldn't talk about us to anyone anyway. Not even Kate."

_And what you fail to understand is that I'm dangerous for you. Wrong. A mistake._

"So it's immaterial whether I sign an agreement or not," Anastasia was continuing. "If it means so much to you, then fine. I'll sign." She sounded like a patient parent explaining something simple to a child for the fiftieth time.

Christian tried to convince himself to argue, but nothing she'd said was wrong, exactly, and Christian nodded his consent. "Fair point well made, Miss Steele."

He was trying to collect himself, to find the next words to explain what he did, what he wanted her to do, when Ana drained her glass of wine and looked boldly up to him, asking, "Does this mean you're going to make love to me tonight, Christian?"

It was all Christian could do to remain silent, and for an instant he wanted to snatch the NDA from Ana and shred it - he obviously hadn't prepared her expectations properly. Instead, he swallowed against his dry throat and managed to say hoarsely, "No, Anastasia, it doesn't." As the extent of her fearlessness dawned on him, Christian's horror turned to anger and he was able to sound adequately stern when he continued, "First, I don't make love. I fuck… hard."

Anastasia's lips parted at that and her tongue ran eagerly over her full lower lip, her fascination and arousal apparent, and Christian wanted to scream. She thought him more attractive for his coarseness, and Christian wondered bitterly if she'd be so pleased when that coarseness manifested itself with her over his knee instead of sipping wine and enjoying delusional fantasies about what else the night would entail.

"Second," Christian continued, his voice growing surer as her lack of understanding persisted, "there's a lot more paperwork to do. And third, you don't yet know what you're in for. You could still run for the hills."

Anastasia continued to look entirely unconcerned, and Christian sighed, seeing that there was only one way for her to realize the world she was on the threshold of. He'd never done this, never shown it to anyone who didn't already know, but Ana had already pushed so far beyond what Christian thought he was capable of, and he resigned himself to the inevitable and beckoned for her to stand.

"Come. I want to show you my playroom."

"You want to play on your Xbox?"

Christian laughed harshly and wished that he could answer yes. "No, Anastasia." He stood and led her to the playroom, wondering with every step why he'd chosen to destroy himself this way.

They arrived before the thick wooden doors of the playroom and Christian turned to gaze at Ana, drinking her in. His eyes bore into the innocent anticipation in hers, memorized way she lifted her face to him so trustingly, so bravely, lingered on the soft, full lines of her mouth that knew no bounds in the words that came out of it. It was the last time he might see any of it. "You can leave anytime."

_Please don't leave me._

"The helicopter is on standby to take you whenever you want to go."

_Don't go._

"You can stay the night and go home in the morning."

_Or you could stay as long as you want._

"It's fine whatever you decide."

_At least you'll be fine._

Christian took a deep breath, wondering exactly when he'd allowed this girl to steal his free will and replace it with this all-consuming need for her that tore at parts of Christian which he hadn't known existed.

"Just open the damn door, Christian."

Maybe it was when she'd begun saying things like that - which had been within the first minutes of their acquaintance.

He unlocked the door and held it open wide for Anastasia, waiting for her choice to fall. To run the other way or to venture within.

She looked at him before she looked inside, and Christian wished he could have been a different man.

She looked into the playroom, into the darkest part of Christian's world.

And she entered.

* * *

**A/N:** So I finally got my hands on _Fifty Shades Freed_, and I've finished reading it. As I read, I realized that some of the things I've planned to include about Christian's childhood/past in this story are contradictory to things E.L. James reveals in the last book. Rather than change what I've planned just for the sake of continuity, I've decided to use my ideas, even if they don't match with the original book. As long as I stay in character, I don't mind having discrepancies, and I hope that you don't mind either. Just be forewarned that, if/when there's something in this story that contradicts the background E.L. James established for Christian (some of them are going to be pretty glaringly obvious), I'm probably aware of it and left it that way on purpose. I hope it won't bother you.

On another, semi-related note, I was really surprised to find the "Meet Fifty Shades" bit after the Epilogue in _Fifty Shades Freed_. I had never imagined that E.L. James had already done the first couple chapters of _Fifty Shades of Grey_ from Christian's point of view, and it was interesting for me to see what was similar and what was different between our two versions. Having read it now, I'm amazed that you all liked my story in spite of the redundancy, and didn't just write me off as a boring, unimaginative copy-cat. So thank you for your interest, I appreciate it now even more than I originally realized I should.


	12. Playroom

**Playroom**

Christian waited. He waited for Ana to scream, to tell him that he was a monster, to run from the room.

Instead, she surprised him and did none of those things. She went further, silently stepping fully into the playroom and gradually taking it all in. First the impressive cross on the wall - it was Christian's favorite toy - the iron grid above it, the table and bench, and finally the bed and couch. Ana smiled slightly, just a faint little pull at the corners of her mouth, and Christian wondered if he'd shocked her into insanity. There was nothing funny in the room.

She turned to him, her face composed, calm in a way that frightened Christian. She looked thoughtful, and he hated to think of the conclusions she was coming to in her silence.

She looked away again, slowly, as if in a daze, and wandered over to the racks lined along one of the walls. She regarded it for a long time, and Christian followed her, hands behind his back, wishing that he could know what she was thinking. She reached out tentatively and stroked the flogger, carefully, as if it might explode if she wasn't gentle enough.

"It's called a flogger," Christian supplied, thinking vaguely that whoever named it could have picked a name that sounded less intimidating.

He hoped that that would draw a response from her, but Anastasia didn't even nod. She went to the bed and lightly touched the glossy varnished length of one of the bed's wooden posts. He couldn't see her expression when she was facing the bed, and the constriction of fear in Christian's chest clenched tighter until he couldn't stand it.

"Say something." He'd meant it to sound demanding, to snap Ana out of whatever trance that had overcome her, but it came out like a plea. His hands shook, and Christian curled them into fists and pressed his nails into his palms until it was painful.

"Do you do this to people, or do they do it to you?"

Ana's voice was steady, and Christian smiled in a sharp wave of relief that she was alright enough to be wondering about the details.

"People?" he mused. "I do this to women who want me to." Even to Christian's own ears, it sounded like he was defending himself. It had been his first fear in bringing her directly here, that she'd jump to conclusions and think he was some kind of beast who preyed on frightened, non-consenting women.

"If you have willing volunteers, why am I here?" There was no skepticism or accusation in her tone, only confusion, and Christian took a breath, feeling marginally more secure.

_That's a good question._

"Because I want to do this with you, very much." It was barely a reason, but it was the only one Christian had.

"Oh."

She moved away from him, to the bench, and touched it lightly with her fingertips. This time, Christian restrained himself from following her.

"You're a sadist?"

Christian thought of the crack whore and her pimp and everything he'd seen him do to her. _Yes._

_It's not my fault,_ he wanted to tell her. _I can't help it. I wish I could be something different._

She'd leave if she knew.

"I'm a Dominant," he chose to tell her instead. _You didn't say no._

"What does that mean?" Her eyes were widened, the fear finally beginning to come to them.

"It means that I want you to willingly surrender yourself to me, in all things." It was what Elena had said to him when, three months into their relationship, he'd screamed the safe word and jerked away from the bite of her belt and asked for the first time, _What are we doing?_

Elena's answer had made sense to him then, it still did, but looking at Anastasia's open, innocent face, he knew that it wouldn't make sense to her.

Ana frowned, and Christian saw that he was right. She knew how to love herself. She was perfect; she had every reason to. And Elena's explanation had been for someone who didn't.

"Why would I do that?" Anastasia narrowed her eyes, and her voice, though soft, was a quiet challenge.

_She's about to leave._

"To please me." He couldn't speak above a whisper.

_You don't deserve to be pleased by her._ Christian smiled painfully.

Her mouth parted in stunned surprise, and Christian found himself miraculously still talking. "In very simple terms, I want you to please me."

It was the only way he knew to beg her to stay, and he hoped she could see that that was what he was doing.

"How do I do that?"

_Does that mean you want to? Even with all _this_?_

"I have rules, and I want you to comply with them," Christian answered, trying to regain composure with his professionalism. "They are for your benefit and for my pleasure. If you follow these rules to my satisfaction, I will reward you. If you don't, I shall punish you, and you will learn."

"And where does all this fit in?" Anastasia gestured vaguely at the entirety of the playroom.

_She's considering this_, Christian realized with incredulity.

"It's all part of the incentive package," he said, wishing it sounded slightly less ridiculous. He'd never had to explain it aloud before, and somehow it was better on paper, when both parties already understood what everything meant. "Both reward and punishment."

"So you'll get your kicks by exerting your will over me." The judgment was finally creeping into her voice.

_It won't feel like that_, he wished he could say, but that wouldn't help her understand. "It's about gaining your trust and your respect, so you'll let me exert my will over you." He'd never before thought to express it in terms of trust and respect, but as Christian said it, he knew it was the truth with Anastasia. "I will gain a great deal of pleasure, joy, even, in your submission. The more you submit, the greater my joy - it's a very simple equation."

"Okay, and what do I get out of this?" Anastasia's eyes met his, steely and sure.

"Me."

_I wish I could give you something better. You deserve better._

Christian felt his own inadequacy more sharply than he had since his childhood, since Elena, and he found himself wanting to apologize for something, but wasn't quite sure what he'd done wrong besides being who he was, and he couldn't quite tell her he was sorry for that.

"You're not giving anything away, Anastasia," he said desperately.

She was silent, and Christian extended a hand to her, deciding that the playroom was too overwhelming for the both of them. "Let's go back downstairs where I can concentrate better. It's very distracting, having you in here."

Ana stared at his hand, and Christian saw the fear and wariness in her eyes and hated himself for being the reason for it.

"I'm not going to hurt you, Anastasia." He'd never before felt so submissive in his own playroom.

She finally reached out and took his hand, her hold tentative, which it had never been before, and Christian wondered if the feel of her hand _belonging_ in his was something he'd lost.

"If you do this, let me show you," he said, wanting her to see that she could belong in his world, as fully as she desired, if she wanted to. "This will be your room," he told her, taking her to the space that he'd just had cleaned out and furnished the night before. It wasn't the bedroom adjacent to the playroom that his submissives usually stayed in; somehow Christian hadn't liked the idea of Ana sleeping in the room where so many others had, when she was so different from all of them. "You can decorate it how you like, have whatever you want in here."

"My room? You're expecting me to move in?"

Christian couldn't conceal his annoyance at how the prospect of living with him, of all the things he'd shown her, bothered her most.

"Not full time," he told her crisply. "Just, say, Friday evening through Sunday. We have to talk about all that, negotiate." He hesitated, realizing that, in his irritation, he'd sounded a bit too sure. "If you want to do this."

"I'll sleep here?"

There was something in her voice… _disapproval?_

"Yes."

"Not with you." It wasn't a question, and now Christian could hear that it was _disappointment_, of all irrational emotions, not disapproval.

_How can she still want that, knowing who you are now? She was afraid of you a moment ago._

"No," Christian said firmly, because, no matter how strangely enjoyable their one night together had been for him, sleeping alone was best for him, and Anastasia ought to be able to see that it was best for her, too. "I told you, I don't sleep with anyone, except you when you're stupefied with drink."

Anastasia frowned, and he could see that she still didn't like it, but she only asked tightly, "Where do you sleep?"

"My room is downstairs."

Ana looked not at all appeased, and Christian sighed, still too anxious to be bothered to figure out why, of all the objections she could make, she chose to be hung up over sleeping arrangements. "Come, you must be hungry."

"Weirdly, I seem to have lost my appetite."

_She's joking?_

"You must eat, Anastasia," Christian insisted. He took her hand without asking this time, deciding that if she still had an appetite for sarcasm, she wouldn't be frightened by his touch, and he led her back to the kitchen.

"I'm fully aware that this is a dark path I'm leading you down, Anastasia, which is why I really want you to think about this." And now, Christian didn't have to look at her to know that she was finally taking every word he spoke with the proper gravity. "You must have some questions."

Christian rummaged in the refrigerator for a cheese platter, and when he emerged, Anastasia was still silent. _In fear?_

"You've signed your NDA; you can ask me anything you want and I'll answer," Christian tried to assure her.

More silence.

"Sit," Christian commanded, her quiet watchfulness beginning to unnerve him.

"You mentioned paperwork."

"Yes."

"What paperwork?"

"Well, apart from the NDA, a contract saying what we will and won't do. I need you to know your limits, and you need to know mine." She gave him a long, skeptical stare, and Christian reminded her, "This is consensual, Anastasia."

"And if I don't want to do this?"

"That's fine." Or at least, it should have been fine, but for the first time, losing a submissive suddenly was anything but fine.

Anastasia's brow creased, and Christian leaned toward her instinctively, wishing that he could smooth away the line of worry between her eyes. "What is it?" he breathed.

"Why a contract? If I change my mind, I won't be free to leave?"

"Of course you'll be free," Christian said, disgust tingeing his tone. "Holding women against their will is not a turn on for me."

"No, bondage and whipping is."

"This is not funny, Anastasia."

"I'm not trying to be."

Christian sighed and leaned back against the counter, running his hands through his hair in frustration. "I don't know what you want," he sighed.

"I believe I said I wanted to know why you needed a contract."

"The contract isn't legally enforceable. It's just a gesture of commitment."

"You want me to commit to getting beaten?"

"No," Christian winced. "This is for our pleasure, Anastasia. The punishments are not enjoyable, but they are for the ultimate pleasure of the dominant _and the submissive_. Women desire this for a reason."

"I don't understand. It's…" - Anastasia trailed off and shook her head - "it's overwhelming."

"That's okay. You can take your time and think it through, I want you to. That's why we're discussing it. What's not okay," Christian added, pushing the cheese platter closer to Anastasia, "is if you don't eat."

"You never really answered my question."

"Eat first."

"I'm not hungry."

Christian crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes. "Humor me."

"Fine, _Mr. Grey_," Anastasia took one grape and ate it slowly, not breaking eye contact with Christian as she placed it between her lips and chewed.

"Are you deliberately trying to distract me?" Christian asked, irritated.

"I'm trying to humor you."

"Your questions?" Christian reminded, choosing to ignore her extra commentary.

"Oh, I can ask them now?"

"You're eating now, aren't you?"

"I just can't believe that you'd be so insistent on a contract if there's really nothing enforceable about it."

"I need it."

Anastasia rolled her eyes, and Christian clenched his jaw. "Why do you need it?" Her voice was almost patronizing.

_Because, according to Dr. Flynn, I have abandonment issues, and if you had any sense of self-preservation, you'd be abandoning me._

Instead, Christian gave a different reason. "This isn't a usual relationship. If it's going to work, both parties need to set the proper expectations, for themselves and for each other, and the contract facilitates that."

"You make it sound like a business arrangement."

"In some ways, it is."

"Because _that's_ attractive."

"As much as I love your ever-present sarcasm, Miss Steele, it's not getting us very far."

"Neither are your answers."

"I'm sorry," Christian sighed, trying to imagine what this must be like for Anastasia, and trying to be sympathetic to her side. "I live in the business world. I view a lot of my life through that lens, and it's made me a successful man. The contract isn't because I'm trying to be detached. It's what I know how to do."

"The women who agree to this - do you stalk all of them to bars?"

"No, I reserve that for you." Christian's eyes gleamed wickedly at her.

"Then how?"

"They seek me out." Christian sobered, and wished that talking to her would stay on the same level for more than a moment at a time, instead of keeping him guessing at whether she needed to hear something light or something sincere.

Anastasia was silent, and Christian yearned to know what she was thinking. "Tell me what worries you most."

"The punishments."

"What about them?"

Anastasia flushed, and Christian tried to nod to her encouragingly. "That they'll hurt," she admitted finally.

"I won't give you punishments that you can't bear."

"And how will you know what I can and can't bear?"

"That's the other reason why I have the contract. It gives both individuals an opportunity to state their limits - hard and soft - and to establish safe words."

Ana's eyes widened at that, and Christian wondered for a moment if he'd frightened her off. Instead, she swallowed and said sturdily, "What's the worst punishment?"

Christian's gaze dropped to the floor. "Anastasia…" he felt like he was begging again.

"Don't 'Anastasia' me."

"A belt."

"A belt?"

Christian traced his own belt buckle with a fingertip and tried to smile at her. "A belt."

"You would hit me with a belt?"

Christian hesitated, tried to find a way to say no. "Not if it was one of your hard limits." It was the best he could do.

"And what if all the punishments were hard limits for me?"

Christian gave her a sad smile. "You wouldn't be a submissive, then, would you?"

Anastasia looked down at her fingers and twisted them together. "Then I don't think I'm a submissive." She sounded pained.

_Believe me, _Christian wanted to tell her, _this is all my fault. My mess. Not yours._

"That's not how this works, Ana," he tried to explain. "You don't jump straight to the worst possible thing. Everything is proportional - the rewards and the punishments. There's going to be more pleasure than pain. All the more so, the longer we do this."

"What's the longest you've had this… _arrangement _last?"

"You'll need to be more specific."

"This whole sadist torture thing."

Christian sighed and chuckled quietly, without humor. "That's not what I meant. Do you want to know the longest I've been on the Dominant side of it, or the Submissive?"

Anastasia's mouth fell open for a moment, and Christian stared at her somberly while she recovered herself, seemed to realize what she was doing, and closed it with a snap.

"Well?" he encouraged when she gave no sign of having regained her ability to speak.

She swallowed, her face now paler than ever. "You were a Submissive?"

"Yes."

"Did she beat you?"

"It's not beating, Anastasia, it's a punishment. But yes, she did."

"Because you wanted her to?"

"I believe that's the meaning of consensual, yes. She gave me what I needed at the time."

Anastasia's expression changed at that, and for a moment Christian thought that the tightening around her eyes was anger, but then he saw that it was sadness, and he wondered why. "You don't need to be the Submissive anymore?" she asked softly.

"No."

"So how long with her?" Anastasia's voice was brittle.

Christian hesitated, wondering if he'd told her too much, too soon. _But you promised honest answers._

"About six years."

"And as a Dominant? How long?" Anastasia asked, visibly struggling to process the bits of information she was receiving.

"In lifestyle, my entire adult life," Christian answered, the questions easier now that they'd moved away from his time with Elena and back to his present self. "In practicality, never longer than six months with a woman."

This seemed to strike Anastasia strangely, and Christian cocked his head at her and raised an eyebrow. "What is it? You look… disturbed. More disturbed than before," he amended, trying to coax a smile from her.

"You've been a Dominant for your _entire_ adult life?" Anastasia asked pointedly, narrowing her eyes.

"Yes." Christian frowned and stepped closer, seating himself next to her at the kitchen bar, wishing he could kiss the place where the corners of her lips turned down in concern. Instead, he settled for touching the back of her hand lightly and asking, "What's wrong? I can't help you unless you tell me."

"If you've been a Dominant for all of your _adult_ life, when were you a Submissive?"

* * *

**A/N:** So I started changing things in this chapter... but I decided to just begin writing different dialogue at the point where it seemed right, instead of making it a huge dramatic event. I'm kind of uncertain about how this chapter turned out, and curious/nervous to know what you thought of it, so please review!


	13. Negotiate

**Negotiate**

Christian stared at Anastasia, paralyzed. She was hardly the first Submissive to know that he'd once subbed for Elena - almost all of them had met Elena - but none of them knew the circumstances around his submission. None of them knew what his age had been, because it was impossible to understand, without knowing his childhood, why Elena had been exactly what he'd needed then.

And nobody knew about his childhood.

He didn't want anybody to.

Least of all the woman that he wanted to dominate.

But Anastasia's question hung in the air between them, her words quiet but direct and unavoidable… _"If you've been a Dominant for all of your adult life, when were you a Submissive?"_

She would leave if he couldn't answer this very simple question.

"When I was fifteen."

"Fifteen." Anastasia's eyes were blazing. "How old was she?"

"Anastasia, it was not what you are thinking. You're drawing conclusions about things you know nothing about."

"An adult, wasn't she?"

"Yes, she was an adult," Christian sighed. "She was - she _is_ - one of the most supportive adults in my life."

Anastasia rose to her feet and glared at Christian. "She's why you're like this." It was an accusation, not a question, and fury burned in her voice.

"Anastasia." Christian stood as well and planted himself firmly in front of Ana. "Look at me."

"It's because of her, and you won't even acknowledge it."

"_Be silent and look at me._" Christian took a step closer, near but very carefully not touching her, his chin coming up, his feet set wider apart than was usual, his hands loose and ready at his sides. The stance was like reminding himself who he was.

Ana glowered up at him, words of protest clearly ready on her lips, but they died silently when she saw the expression on his face.

"Are you listening to me now?"

She nodded.

"The reasons I am _like this_ have nothing to do with Elena."

Anastasia's eyes snapped at the sound of the name, and she crossed her arms, looking so small, but so very resolute as she stood before Christian.

"I may have shown you my playroom, and I may have given you the opportunity to ask me any question you like, but that is not for you to think that you know everything, nor is it for you to act like you have a right to make assumptions about my life. It is for you to feel comfortable and informed with what I am asking you to do. Do you understand?"

"She _beat _you."

"You obviously do not. I am going to make this very clear for you. We are entitled to our privacy. If you choose to do this with me, you are not to make remarks about Elena. You can ask anything you want, but if you have an opinion about her, please keep it to yourself."

"She's a _pedophile_."

"The next time you make a remark like that, you will either be on your way home on Charlie Tango, or you will be across my knee." A very small but outspoken part of Christian's mind warned him that he could be losing her, with every word he spoke, but she had wanted to know, and this was what dominance was.

Anastasia was already on the verge of blurting out something else, but Christian's words brought her up short and she froze.

Christian sighed at the fear in her face, and backed away, giving her space that he could see she needed. "Anastasia, you can relax. I'm not going to surprise you with some ridiculous punishment."

"But you just said-"

"I said that I would spank you the next time you express a judgment about my past. If you decide you want to do this, that is."

Ana bit her lip, looking anything but relieved, and Christian smiled softly and reached tentatively for her hand. When she didn't flinch, even after he'd made his intent clear, he took it and raised it gently to his lips, brushing them lightly over the smooth curves of her knuckles. "This is what a Dom/Sub relationship is, Anastasia. I'm setting an expectation. And, right now, that's _all_ I'm doing. That's how this works."

"But you were angry."

"Yes. You have a penchant for saying the most inappropriate things. But that doesn't mean I'm going to punish you for something I hadn't asked you not to do. I told you that you could ask me anything, and you can. And now I'm also telling you something you can't do. There's nothing else to it."

"Okay."

Christian looked at her quizzically. "Is it okay? You don't seem okay."

"It's a lot to get used to, that's all."

"Does that mean you're still considering?"

Anastasia looked down, flushing, before she said, very quickly, "It means I think I'd like to try."

"Really?" Christian couldn't hide his nearly incredulous surprise that now, in this moment, of all times, was when she'd decided to capitulate.

She met his eyes earnestly and answered, "I want to consider it. I mean, you didn't break out the belt for my infraction, so everything seems like it's in order so far. It doesn't seem too bad, if that's really how it works."

"I told you we don't jump to the worst option right away."

"That you did." Anastasia offered him a tentative smile before taking a deep breath and asking, "So can I see the contract?"

"Are you going to sign it without reading it, like you did the NDA?"

"I think I've learned my lesson. Wouldn't want any other medieval torture rooms creeping up on me unexpectedly."

"Good girl. You learn fast."

"I have to. I've got a big learning curve ahead of me."

"We'll go slow. You're a smart, beautiful girl," Christian beamed at her. "You'll do fine."

Ana flushed at that, and Christian took the opportunity to learn in and kiss her under her ear, nibbling gently at her earlobe before pulling away and giving her a wickedly enthusiastic grin. "When I come back with the contract, you better have gotten started on that cheese platter."

"Yes, Mr. Grey."

"See?" Christian tossed her a wink. "You're a quick study."

* * *

An hour later, the cheese platter was empty and Anastasia was still flipping through the contract and shaking her head. "You can't expect me to exercise four times a week."

"Exercise is good for you, and once we begin, you're going to want to be limber. This isn't an unreasonable demand."

"Oh, so it's a _demand_ now?"

"It's a term of our agreement," Christian rolled his eyes.

"I'll do three times per week."

"No."

"Kate's been trying to get me to join her gym for years. I think you should take three and consider yourself lucky."

"I _am_ quite the fortunate man to have you here, Miss Steele," Christian acknowledged, giving her a charming smile and being pleased when her pupils dilated and her breathing quickened in response. "However, you're a very stubborn woman. Suppose you do half time on the fourth day?"

"Since when do you get to tell me what to do with my body, anyway?"

"I believe the whole idea of this is that I _do_ get to tell you what to do with your body." Christian smiled apologetically at Anastasia across the papers spread between them.

"You're telling me that you're going to derive pleasure from the thought of me suffering through exercise four days per week?"

Christian pushed aside a very distracting mental image of Anastasia in tight exercise clothes and covered with a light sheen of sweat, and he tried to focus on the matter at hand. "As tempting as that could be, I suppose it's not a necessity. I'll settle for three."

"Deal." Ana grinned, and Christian found himself finding that, for the first time, he was enjoying this process. It seemed more like foreplay and less like a tiresome formality with her there on the couch, bickering good-naturedly with him over details.

"You know," Ana remarked, flipping over a page of the contract and reading the next section, "I wouldn't mind getting seven hours of sleep every night. This thing has its perks, I guess."

"Oh yeah?" Christian challenged, his eyes twinkling playfully. "Is that the only perk?"

"It's the only one I can think of." Anastasia's blue eyes were glowing and eager, speaking to the contrary.

"Really," Christian whispered, his voice dropping an octave. "Let me see if I can remedy that." He leaned across the sheets of legal documentation between them on the couch, cupping the side of Ana's head gently in his palm and tilting her face toward his.

He crushed his mouth against hers, savoring the feel of her lips yielding to his, and pushed aside the papers with his free hand so that he could dip her back until she was lying against the couch. He moved with Anastasia, until he was stretched over her, supporting the weight of his body on one elbow while trailing his other hand down the length of her body, into the soft curve of her side, over the jutting crest of her hip, onto the firmness of her thigh. She returned his kiss hungrily, breathlessly, and Christian tipped his head forward, deepening the kiss - until he felt Anastasia's hands running eagerly over his back, skimming his shoulder blades, and he drew away sharply from her touch.

"Christ, Ana," he growled under his breath, voice hoarse as he fought back swelling memories of the pimp pinning him down easily with one hand and the hiss of a glowing cigarette butt pushed into his bare back. "You're so eager."

"I'm sorry." Her eyes were wide and nervous, and an embarrassed flush stained her cheeks. "I didn't know I was doing something wrong."

"You weren't," Christian panted, hoping Ana would interpret it as arousal, rather than fear. "You were fine. You were better than fine. You're amazing."

"Then why'd you stop?" Ana seemed to regret the words as soon as she said them, and her teeth moved down to worry her lower lip.

"Don't do that," Christian murmured, running his thumb over her lip, carefully not answering her question and knowing that she'd be too shy to ask it again. He shivered, the pimp's voice still echoing in his ears.

"Are you okay?" Ana seemed unsure of the question, even as she said it, but her face was nothing but sincere.

"Of course I am." He sounded it, too, and Christian felt vague relief that he'd so long ago become well versed in the art of sounding fine when he wasn't.

"Okay." Her voice was tentative, but convinced.

Christian closed his eyes briefly, hardly hearing her over the flashback that was engulfing him, the memory of a cold concrete floor beneath him and the sickening stench of his own burning flesh above him. _"Worthless little bastard. Feel that? Do you fucking _feel_ that, you little son of a bitch? That's a cigarette, and from now on you're going to remember it."_

Christian surfaced from the recollection, and tried to regain his self-possession. "There's a lot left in the contract," he said to Anastasia, nearly tripping over his words in his hurry to get them out, "and I don't want you making decisions that you don't fully understand. Why don't you take it home and look over it?" She was too close, too innocent, too overwhelmed to respect or understand his inabilities, and he needed her to distance herself. He couldn't discuss business any further that night. He couldn't remember a time in his adult life when he'd been so appallingly out of control.

"Take your time with it and tell me what you think - what you're comfortable with, what you're not," Christian urged, pressing the contract into her hands, knowing that he was being too pushy but unable to stop himself.

"You want me to go?" Ana's voice was full of insecurity, and Christian hated that he'd given her reason to think that it should be.

"No," he tried to backtrack, running his finger down the first page of the contract, the words, in their tight, crowded print, seeming to blur together. "No, I want you to stay, I just don't want you to make a choice right now. This is a lot to take in."

_It's too much for me._

"You've just found out a lot about me, and you need to process it."

_I can't handle _you _while I'm remembering _him_._

"I want you to think about it yourself, without my influence. So you can be sure of what you want, when you do decide."

_I can't remember how to think._

Christian took a deep breath and held his hand out to Anastasia. "We've handled enough legal stuff for the night. Come on, I'll give you a proper tour of the whole apartment."

Anastasia's hand slipped into his, and Christian led her from the great room, heading back upstairs. "Can I spend the night?" she looked up at him shyly from under dark lashes.

"Of course, I said you could." Christian hesitated for a moment before speaking again, remembering his blissfully dreamless sleep with her the night before. Taking a leap of faith, he added, "You can stay in my bed again, if you like."

"You enjoyed it, too?" Anastasia's quick glance up to Christian's face was hopeful this time.

"Yes," Christian smiled. "I did." And, as they walked, he leaned down to lightly kiss the top of her head and wondered if, possibly, the rules in the contract - like so many other rules he thought he'd known until he met Anastasia - didn't all apply to her.

* * *

**A/N:** I finally got to show a little bit more of Christian's dominant side! What did you think of the chapter?

The rest of this author's note is responses to a couple anonymous reviews that I wanted to address, so go ahead and skip it if you want. Sorry it's super long.

To the anonymous reviewer who threatened to stop reading if Ana becomes Christian's sub... I make it very explicit in the summary of this story that Ana will not end up as a submissive, so I'm not really sure why you decided I need an ultimatum. Also, you very emphatically declared that the only reason Christian loves Ana is precisely because she is _not_ a submissive. I completely agree. I believe that I have already expressed the same sentiment in my summary, many of my author's notes, and (I had hoped) in my story. It's unfortunate that you are, in your own words, disgusted by my story.

To Zoe, the anonymous reviewer who said that she didn't want to just read "Fifty Shades of Grey rephrased," and that it was unoriginal, it's too bad that you were disappointed by the type of story this is. My purpose isn't to create a new conflict for Christian and Ana. My purpose is to show the same conflict, but have the characters be focused on different things. I think Ana's priorities were often misplaced (e.g. she's more concerned with having good sex than with both her and Christian's emotional well being), and I'd like to change that, because I don't think it's representative of true love. Yes, that means this is going to be very similar to _Fifty Shades of Grey_. If I haven't already made that clear, here's another warning for everybody else who isn't interested in reading that type of story.

To everybody, thanks so much, as always, for reading.


	14. Back to the Start

**A/N:** This chapter is my version of Christian's and Elena's first time, and though it's not more graphic than anything in the original books, it could be uncomfortable, so here's a warning if you'd like to skip it. It's mostly a flashback, so you won't be missing anything vital.

* * *

**Back to the Start**

_The house is empty. Elliot is going on a road trip with his friends, Mia is at some kind of multi-day sleepover, Mom is away at a week-long medical conference, and Dad took time off from work to go with her. Christian is instantly alert when he feels a person's presence in the house; some senses that you acquire when you're young - like picking up your ears at the little intangible noises of someone arriving or leaving - they stay with you even when you can barely remember the time when they were necessities for survival._

_Christian doesn't need or like to have anybody looking out for him, but the house _is_ empty, or at least it was, and he can't think of a reason why anyone should be around, so it's mildly concerning. He freezes and stands up carefully from the piano bench, wishing that he'd been playing just a bit more quietly when he first heard the sound._

_It's more pronounced now, the clack of high heels on hardwood floors. "Mom?" He doesn't like this, this calling for her, especially when he _knows _that she's in Boston on the other side of the country. He doesn't like to feel like he needs her. Needing people is dangerous, because nobody really ever has anybody but themselves._

"_Christian, it's just me," a female voice calls, and Christian spins around to see Mrs. Lincoln entering from the kitchen. "Grace asked me to stop in once a day and make sure everything is in order here. I hope I didn't startle you."_

"_You don't have to do that," Christian mumbles. "I've got everything under control here." He'd _told_ Mom that he'd be fine on his own, that he really didn't rather that he was off with friends the way Elliot and Mia had chosen to be. But of course he should have guessed that she'd send Mrs. Lincoln over to check on him anyway._

"_I'm good here," Christian insists when Mrs. Lincoln doesn't appear to be leaving. "Really."_

"_I'm sure you are, Christian," Mrs. Lincoln says, "but I promised your mother. You won't mind if I stay for a glass of wine, will you, now?"_

_Christian shrugs permissively and is turning back to the piano when he feels Mrs. Lincoln's hand close over his right shoulder, dangerously close to the line below which even bubbly, buoyant Mia knows not to touch him. He tenses under her grip. Her fingers are cold and thin, he can feel it even through his black t-shirt._

"_Is that a way to treat a guest, Christian?"_

"_No?"_

"_No, it's not. Give me a glass of wine, please."_

"_Okay." Christian shrugs out from under her touch, giving her a wary, perplexed gaze, and leads Mrs. Lincoln to the large, decorative wine case that's kept in his mother's office because it was a gift from a wealthy patient she spent years caring for. He pours Mrs. Lincoln a glass and hands it to her, and he's about to leave when she stops him with a finger placed lightly in the dip at the center of his collar bone._

"_I don't think so."_

_Christian doesn't say anything, because there's something vaguely dangerous about this, something that makes him think of the pimp, which he knows is irrational, because Mrs. Lincoln - with her expensive shoes and sleekly immaculate blonde hair - Mrs. Lincoln is nothing like the man that Christian now knows is not his biological father._

"_You're out of control."_

"_What?"_

"_You don't like being touched." Christian isn't sure, but he thinks Mrs. Lincoln's finger moves just a bit lower on his chest as she says this, maybe no longer quite in the hollow of his neck, now lying just on the line of bone beneath it._

"_No, I don't." Christian's voice is shaking, and he doesn't like that, and he doesn't like that he's not sure why._

"_Grace tells me that you don't let anyone touch your chest."_

"_I don't." And this time, Christian is certain that Mrs. Lincoln's finger has moved. His breathing is quickening, and he wants to be angry, or at least confused by this bizarre invasion of his privacy - something that Mom has always respected - but he's mostly just afraid and now he knows exactly why._

"_You want to be like this? Not able to be touched? Not able to feel? You don't want to know what love is?"_

_Christian shrugs again and remains silent because, Jesus, he's only fifteen and what is Mrs. Lincoln's problem? He knows he's not normal, but he also knows that not even normal fifteen-year-old guys think about how they wish they knew what love was._

"_You hate yourself."_

_This isn't a question, but Christian can tell he's supposed to respond to it, and he's inclined to think that she's right, but nobody just _says_ things like that, so of course he shakes his head and answers a little sullenly, "No."_

_Mrs. Lincoln's finger looks like it slips a couple inches, but Christian knows it's deliberate, and he begins to flinch away, but his back comes up against the wide desk in the center of Mom's office, and he can't move away. "If you don't hate yourself, why can't I do this?" And Mrs. Lincoln trails her finger down Christian's chest, all the way to the waistband of his jeans, and Christian's lungs constrict and he can't move or even breath or really do anything at all except throw his head back involuntarily and make a pained moaning sound low in his throat that sounds like a noise a trapped animal would make._

* * *

Christian awoke suddenly, his stomach swooping unsettlingly as if he'd been plucked abruptly from his dream and dropped into his bed. He was vaguely aware of Anastasia next to him, aware enough to be thankful that his nightmares paralyzed him instead of making him thrash around, to be thankful that he'd kept his mouth shut and not screamed.

He wanted to move, to touch Anastasia and remind himself that she was real and alright and unafraid of him. But he could only try to remember how to breath as his flashback continued, trapping him in his own mind, the memory all the more vivid now for his sharper state of consciousness.

* * *

"_Stop it!" he manages to spit out when Mrs. Lincoln's finger pauses momentarily, but she doesn't stop._

_Her hand flattens against him and moves back up the length of Christian's torso, and when she reaches the top of his shirt, she grasps a fistful of it and yanks to get Christian to open his eyes - he's squeezed them shut in fear - and look at her. "You're broken and damaged and you have no control over yourself. Don't you want to stop disappointing your mother? Don't you want people to love you?"_

"_Yes." It's the obvious option, but it's also all painfully true._

"_I could show you how. I could make you feel. Do you want me to? You have to want it." Her voice sounds breathless; eager, almost._

"_Yes."_

_As soon as he says it, Mrs. Lincoln's hand disappears from his body, but her voice replaces it, just as commanding as her touch was. "Turn around. Kneel. Hands over your head and against the table."_

_Christian drops to his knees without thinking about it and faces his mother's desk, bracing his hands against the edge of it, not even sure why he is obeying, but doing so because the idea of someone there, someone who is taking charge - it makes him feel safe._

_There is a rustling, the sound of something sliding against some material - it sounds like fabric - and Christian looks up in time to see Mrs. Lincoln sliding her narrow, black, leather belt from the loops of her slacks. "Head down!" she snaps, her voice suddenly sharp, worlds different from the calm, steady tone it had been moments ago._

_Christian fixes his eyes on the grain of the hardwood flooring, trying to decide why her gesture is familiarly menacing, and a moment later there is the hiss of rushing air and the belt bites into his back with a vicious-sounding snap. Christian's fingers curl into the edge of the table, and he locks his jaw, refusing to scream._

That's why it's familiar.

"_Can you bear it with your shirt off?" Mrs. Lincoln's voice is level and measured again._

_Christian nods through gritted teeth, reminding himself that this is not the worst pain he__'__s ever felt._

"_Shirt off, then.__"__ Christian hesitates for a moment, because this is __his__ mother__'__s friend, and they__'__re in his mom__'__s office, and this is wrong and strange and probably dangerous, but Mrs. Lincoln__'__s belt flicks very lightly over the back of his neck, almost like a caress, and Christian obeys because she at least seems to know what she__'__s doing and it__'__s a little bit nice have someone direct him so firmly and surely._

_His shirt is off, and he tosses it aside on the floor, but Mrs. Lincoln picks it up and folds it very neatly and lays it gingerly over the back of his mother__'__s chair. __"__From now on, you don__'__t throw your things around like a careless teenager. Do I look like I__'__m interested in dealing with a careless teenager?__"_

_Christian__'__s first instinct is to look up, but he remembers Mrs. Lincoln__'__s previous instruction that he keep his head down, so he just says, __"__No.__"_

"_That__'__s right.__"_

_And then, without warning, her belt lashes into his skin again, and Christian is amazed at how much sharper the pain is when the thin fabric of his shirt is gone. It__'__s been a long time since anyone__'__s hurt him like this, and the familiarity is sickening at first. Christian is about stand up and tell Mrs. Lincoln that she__'__s crazy, that nobody behaves like this, that he__'__s not going to lie down and let someone beat him __–__ he__'__s done enough of that in his life, after all __–__ but her next move stills his body in a way that another lick from the belt wouldn__'__t have been able to._

_She bends down and places one hand on his shoulder and the other on the small of his back. He jerks involuntarily underneath her touch when her fingers come into contact with his back, and then Mrs. Lincoln__'__s lips are next to his ear, whispering dangerously, __"__Stay still.__"_

_Christian clenches his jaw, and he__'__s ready when Mrs. Lincoln replaces her hand on his back, so he barely trembles this time at her touch. __"__Better,__"__ she approves._

_And before Christian can wonder what she__'__s trying to do to him, or even lose himself too hopelessly in the memories it brings to the surface, Mrs. Lincoln__'__s mouth is on his back and she__'__s kissing tenderly along the line that the strike of her belt left against his flesh. Her lips are surprisingly soft, and her touch is feather light, and, though it makes the reddening mark burn, it__'__s a pleasant pain, one that__'__s full of a sweet gentleness that Christian can__'__t remember having ever felt before._

"_Okay?__"__ Mrs. Lincoln asks, and, to Christian__'__s own surprise, he finds himself nodding, because he really _is_ okay._

_She seems to think that being okay means he wants more, because she straightens up and hits him again, and again, over and over, and Christian can hear from her breathing that she isn__'__t holding back. He__'__s in pain, but more than that, he__'__s relieved that she__'__s somehow made the decision for him that he wants to keep going, and he wonders if he actually does._

_The belt isn__'__t so bad once the impact ceases to surprise him __–__ and there__'__s a kind of controlled punishment in it that Christian appreciates, because it__'__s oddly easier bearing the unconditional patience from his mom and dad that Christian doesn__'__t understand and knows he doesn__'__t deserve. This seems to compensate for it. But really, the reason he doesn__'__t question or protest is that he enjoys the feel of her lips on his back after every strike of the belt. He can__'__t remember the crack whore having ever touched him so tenderly __–__ and he__'__s never allowed his real mother to try. And when it__'__s accompanied by the lash of the belt, he__'__s able to feel the pleasure of it without the crushing guilt of knowledge that, if anybody knew who he really was, they wouldn__'__t be there, loving him, caring about him._

"_Do you know how much your mother wishes you__'__d allow her to touch you like this?__"__ Mrs. Lincoln asks, and though Christian thinks sarcastically that Mom would never want to even imagine him being touched quite like _this_, he knows what Mrs. Lincoln means. He knows that he broke his mother__'__s heart a little bit when he didn__'__t let her kiss him goodbye on his first day of kindergarten, when he shied away from her embrace when he won his first concert piano competition at eight years old._

_He__'__s always hated that, because after she saved him and kept him and everything, the least he ought to be able to give her is the loving touch between a mother and child. He owes her this. He owes her so much more, and he__'__s tried to compensate by being the best at everything he does __–__ school, piano, French __–__ but Grace thrives on human contact and Christian has never doubted that she__'__d trade in his high GPA on any day for the opportunity to hold him, to make him feel how much she loves him._

_He knows __s__he loves h__im__, and he wishes he could assure her of that, because she thinks he doesn__'__t know it. She can__'__t see that his real problem is that he doesn__'__t understand _why_._

_So Christian nods in answer to Mrs. Lincoln__'__s question and manages to hiss the words, __"__I know,__"__ between his clenched teeth. He pauses and wonders why he__'__s ending up talking to this woman instead of the therapist that his parents pay __–__ and who doesn__'__t hit him __–__ but there is something about kneeling, shirtless, on the floor of his mother__'__s office that makes him not care. So he adds in an anguished whisper, __"__I can__'__t. I can__'__t bear to feel anything.__"_

"_You__'__re feeling this.__"__ The belt comes down again; Christian is expecting it this time, and he appreciates that Mrs. Lincoln__'__s voice, like her belt, is lacking the saccharine coating of false understanding that his therapist uses._

"_This is okay.__"_

"_Good.__"__ Mrs. Lincoln__'__s lips linger on Christian__'__s skin a little longer this time, and after a moment of hesitation she adds, __"__I__'__m enjoying it, too.__"_

_The next strike of the belt is extra-hard, as if to remind him that her tiny reveal of the fact that she feels something during this, too, does not make her any less in command. It__'__s an oddly comforting reminder._

_The belt hits him only two more times before Christian hears Mrs. Lincoln drop it. It hits the floor with a metallic thud, and Christian, looking sideways without raising his head, thinks he can see an almost invisible dent __that the silver buckle__ has left in the varnish of the hardwood flooring. Mrs. Lincoln kneels beside Christian and, as she bends over him, he can feel her long ponytail falling forward over her shoulder and onto his back. Her hair is fine and silky and straight, and the feel of it makes the overly-sensitized nerves o__n__ Christian__'__s back tingle._

"_You were quiet,__"__ she observes, and Christian thinks, _Of course I was quiet. Quiet is safe.

"_Are you okay?__"__ Christian thinks that she should be the one to be telling him this, because she is the one who can see whatever damage she__'__s done to his back, but h__e's pretty sure that__ he could tolerate more of this, so he nods his head._

"_I need a verbal answer, please.__"__ Her voice __i__s gentle, concerned. __"__I have to be sure.__"_

"_I__'__m fine.__"__ It is habit that makes Christian__'__s voice sound defensive when he says these words._

"_Look at me.__"_

_She examines his face for a long moment, and then sighs and smiles at him. __"__You did well.__"_

_Christian remains impassive and he gazes at her warily, because he__'__s fairly certain that he__'__s not supposed to thank her for the compliment._

"_That was the painful part. There__'__s pleasure, too.__"_

_Christian frowns at this, because obviously there was pain, and he thought the counter to it had been her kisses along his back._

"_Stand up.__"_

_Christian rises, rolling his shoulders back to flex the muscles that are stiff now from being over his head for so long, and as soon as he__'__s on his feet and facing her, Mrs. Lincoln takes a quick step towards him, pinning him between herself and his mother__'__s desk behind him._

"_Get on the table. Lie down. On your back.__"_

_Christian does so, carefully, because this mahogany desk was an anniversary present to his mom, from his dad, but he doesn't take his time about it after Mrs. Lincoln picks up her belt from the floor and flicks the bottom of his bare foot with it. He knows it__'__s her way of saying_ _"Hurry up__"__ and he doesn__'__t want to give her a reason to think she has to tell him more plainly._

"_Good.__"__ She drops the belt again, and Christian is surprised to find that he__'__s relieved, because he hadn__'__t thought he__'__d minded the whipping so much. __"__I__'__m going to undress you now.__"_

_Christian is silent, frozen in fear, more towards what he__'__ll say if Mrs. Lincoln asks if he__'__s okay with _that_, than the actual idea of what__'__s apparently happening._

_Mrs. Lincoln makes the choice for him, though, and her cool fingers are at his waist, undoing the button on Christian__'__s jeans. She takes her time, her hands dallying in unnecessary places, skimming the v-shaped definition of his hips, lingering at the waistband of his pants. Christian is surprised to find himself cooperating __–__ he hadn__'__t been planning on protesting, but he also didn__'__t expect himself to arch his hips willingly to help her as she lower__s__ his jeans._

"_Put your hands over your head,__"__ Mrs. Lincoln command__s__, moving around to the other end of the table, near his head. Christian obeys and, unable to see past his arms when he turn__s__ his head to either side, hear__s__ her lift something from his mother__'__s desk, and then between his two hands he fe__els __her place an object __–__ cold, smooth, and heavy._

"_Don__'__t let go of that, and don__'__t lift your hands or your head.__"__ Christian, turning it over in his hands, realize__s__ that it __i__s the large crystal paperweight with his parents__'__ wedding date engraved on the bottom. He __h__o__ld__s__ tight to it, lets it ground him, and he understands why he's not allowed to let go._

_When Mrs. Lincoln sp__eaks next__, her voice __i__s coming from down by Christian__'__s feet again. __"__Remember, this is the pleasure. You__'v__e earned it.__"__ She hoist__s__ herself onto the desk, and when she be__nds__ over Christian, into his line of vision, he s__ees__ that she __i__s undressed now, too. Between her fingers she h__olds__ a very familiar foil packet._

* * *

The flashback stopped almost as abruptly as it had yanked Christian awake, and for a moment he lay perfectly still, flat on his back, panting and reeling from the precision of the memory, before he thought to wonder what had stopped the flashback.

It was Anastasia who made him realize what it had been, as she murmured again the words that must have snapped Christian out of it. "Come back."

"I'm here," he whispered, without thinking.

She rolled over, towards him, her hands grasping at something that wasn't there and coming up with only the sheets, and Christian was horrified for an instant that he might have woken her, and that he'd have to explain to her his still-apparent state of fear from the flashback. She didn't wake, though, and only moaned, "_Stay._"

"I will," Christian insisted earnestly. This time, he was aware of his decision to answer her, to soothe her, and it made him slightly uncomfortable, even though he knew she probably couldn't hear him and wouldn't remember it even if she did.

"Christian." This time, her voice was pained, and it made Christian's stomach twist with guilt. "Please don't go. _Please_."

Christian almost wished that he could have stayed safely in the flashback, a place where things weren't real - at least not real any longer. It would have been better than facing the present truth - that he'd made her care for him. Anastasia - stunning and intelligent and untarnished and _happy_, so happy in her innocent, normal world - Anastasia wanted more from him than he was capable of giving. Women left him when they realized his limitations. They didn't beg him to stay. Anastasia shouldn't have been different. And he shouldn't have told her that he would be there.

Because he couldn't. Not in a whole, healthy, human way that could give her everything she deserved. Everything she apparently wanted from him.

_She's attached to you. You should have left her alone._

But he hadn't, and Anastasia rolled closer still, and her hand finally found his wrist and curled around it gently. "Don't leave me."

Christian knew that he ought to keep his mouth shut, that even if she was asleep, and he wasn't truly misleading her, he was misleading himself. As he leaned over to kiss her hair and vow in a low whisper, "I'm not going anywhere, Anastasia," he knew he wasn't good enough to keep the promise.

But he'd always been determined when it mattered, and he could at least try.

* * *

**A/N:** I'm really nervous to know what you think of this chapter!

I know a lot of my readers aren't big fans of Elena; believe me, I hate her too. But it wouldn't be a story without conflicts for Christian to overcome, both internally and with others, so you'll have to put up with her for a while longer. Don't worry, though, I certainly don't envision a future for Christian that includes Elena in any way.


	15. Morning

**Morning**

Christian had intended to slip out from underneath Anastasia's loose grip as soon as he thought he could do so without waking her, but she was warm, and the piano bench that was his alternative seemed awfully hard in comparison. It wouldn't hurt, Christian, decided, to lay watching her a bit longer. He usually preferred to stay awake after the night terrors, because they tended to pick up where they left off if he went back to sleep, and the piano made him forget. Or at least made him able to remember in a way that was bearable.

But Anastasia's soft presence next to him was more than bearable, and Christian didn't have to sleep. Instead, he touched her hair gingerly, because it seemed like the only movement he could make that wouldn't wake her. Even so, she seemed to feel his ministrations, because she murmured sleepily and nestled closer. Into his chest.

Christian tensed in spite of how clearly gentle her movement was. She was barely touching him, her nose pushing only ever so slightly into his chest, but it made every instinct in Christian's body urge to shrink from her as his skin went cold and his pulse picked up, faster than it had been when he'd first woken up.

He gently eased his arm out from under her hand and inched away from Anastasia carefully, holding his breath as she stirred.

"I knew you'd leave," she sighed softly, her voice crestfallen despite the fact that it was blurred with sleep.

"Silly girl," Christian whispered back to her, caressing her head lightly. "Don't you know that you've got it the wrong way around?"

He swung his legs over the mattress and stood, regarding her quietly. He remembered suddenly something the crack whore had done when she was leaving at night for her _work_ and he'd clung to her for her to stay - before he'd learned to keep his mouth shut. She always leave him with one of her shirts that she'd been wearing around the whole day, something soft and cotton, not the scratchy, cheap lace stuff she'd wear out at night. It would smell like her, and if Christian didn't let go of it, it stayed warm like her.

Christian stripped his white t-shirt off over his head and laid it next to Anastasia. She nuzzled into it almost immediately, and Christian smiled, satisfied, and turned and left before she could do anything else that would captivate him and make him stay against his better judgment.

Christian seated himself at the piano and began to play, and he was still there when the sun rose that morning.

"You look good like this," came a soft voice from behind him, and Christian looked over his shoulder to see Anastasia standing there, her hands clasped before her. She'd traded in the dress that she'd fallen asleep in - he'd have to ask Mrs. Jones to iron it before Ana left - for his shirt that he'd left with her during the night. Beneath the thin white fabric, he could faintly make out the outline of the pale blue bra he'd given her after their night at the Heathman Hotel, and it was more than pleasing to see it on her.

"Like what?" Christian asked, turning back to face the piano keys without any pause in the music.

Anastasia was silent, and Christian's grin broadened as he imagined her bashfully flushing face. "Hmm?" he probed. There was nothing but more silence, and Christian added, more forcibly, "Don't leave me hanging here, Ana. Like what?"

"This." Her voice was reluctant, shy, and he could sense her gesturing vaguely at him with her hand, though he couldn't see her.

"I think I'm going to need you to be a bit more specific." Christian's fingers slipped into playing a more upbeat tune as he relished this teasing, this coaxing. It was a game of testing suspense and tension, not unlike one he'd act out in the playroom, but with their words this time instead of their bodies. "Like what, Anastasia?" His voice was low and her name tasted delicious on his lips.

"Shirtless," Anastasia whispered, finally. "At the piano."

"You like this?"

"Yes." And then quickly, as if in a rush to objectify the conversation into something more noncommittal, "You're a beautiful piano player."

"I'm beautiful, or I play the piano beautifully?" He could almost feel her squirming behind him with embarrassment at his question, and it felt like triumph to know that he could do this to her, without even looking at her.

"Both." Her voice was impossibly even quieter.

"You're blushing," Christian remarked, not turning to confirm his statement. "Come around to this side of the piano, so I can see you."

Ana obliged, and Christian beamed. "You look good this morning, too. You should wear my shirts more often." Christian finished the song and his eyes lingered appreciatively where the too-large neckline of his shirt slid partially off Ana's shoulder, displaying the soft curve of her collarbone. The hem of his shirt ended halfway down her thighs, and Christian wished absently that his shirts were a bit shorter.

"You like the piano?" Christian asked, seeing that Ana's eyes were fixed on his hands, which still hovered just over the ivory keys.

Anastasia nodded, and Christian slid to his left, making room on the black leather-padded bench.

"I can't play," Ana said quickly, her eyes widening as she shook her head.

"I think we can remedy that," Christian answered easily, indicating the space next to him with a nod of his head. "Come on."

Anastasia came willingly enough, and held her hands out uncertainly over the keys. Christian, sliding back, slipped his right arm around her, circling her narrow shoulders, and placed each of his hands to overlap with her corresponding one.

"You can relax," he reminded her, when the muscles of her back tensed anxiously at his touch. "The worst you can do is play the wrong note."

Anastasia nodded, biting her lip, and Christian forced himself to divert his gaze back down to her hands. "Here," he said, matching each of his fingers over hers and guiding her hands down to the first chord. It chimed loudly in the large room, and Ana smiled, releasing her lower lip from below her teeth and allowing her shoulders to relax.

"It'll be easier if you come closer," Christian coaxed, tucking Ana further into his arm. "Easy, now, play it again. Lighter touch."

Anastasia obeyed, and this time the note rang out more harmoniously. _So the playroom isn't the only way to refine someone's_ _control, _Christian mused, feeling her leg pressed again his and wishing that he could lift her by the hips onto the flat top of the piano and teach her a different kind of control.

Instead, he settled for hooking his leg around hers, their bare toes touching, and refocused his attention on the keys. "And now this one." Christian shifted his fingers to the next chord, Ana's sliding along with his, following him, and as the music gradually rose from the piano, she leaned deeper into him, tipped her head until it was almost on his shoulder.

"Have you been up long?" Ana asked, when they'd finished the song.

"A while."

Anastasia looked down, her cheeks reddening faintly, and Christian coaxed her chin up gently with his finger. "What?"

"Nothing," Ana said reluctantly, looking down, her lashes casting shy shadows over her pink cheeks. "I just thought that I'd wake up with you next to me this morning. I was looking forward to it."

"Sorry to disappoint, Miss Steele." Christian leaned forward and kissed the top of her head to conceal his quiet pride at her admission. "Another time, perhaps."

Ana looked up at that, her eyebrows arched in surprise. "I thought you don't sleep with people."

"I seem to be making a lot of exceptions for you," Christian shrugged, surprised that it meant so much to her. "Come," he continued, taking her hand and rising from the piano bench. "It's time for breakfast. What would you like?"

"Whatever you have."

"Mrs. Jones will cook whatever you want. I think she's already started some tea for you."

"Mrs. Jones?"

"My housekeeper," Christian explained.

"She doesn't have to," Ana said, fidgeting uncomfortably. "I'm sure I can find myself something here."

"You're a guest, Anastasia. Guests don't cook for themselves."

"When I'm your submissive, can I cook for myself?"

"No." Christian scowled at her, pointedly ignoring the fact that, in the past, he'd never been bothered by the idea of his submissives cooking for him, and had often asked them to. Ana deserved better, though he couldn't quite decide why he suddenly wanted to give her more than he'd given anyone else.

"But I won't be a guest," Ana persisted. "In fact, I specifically recall you telling me last night that I'd be living with you on weekends."

"Just cooperate, Ana, please," Christian sighed. It was too much to justify it to both his own rebellious mind and to Ana's at once. He lead her into the kitchen and took a seat next to her at the breakfast bar, appreciating Ana's silent acceptance of his non-answer. Mrs. Jones, as Christian had expected she would be, was just turning from the stove with a mug of weak, black English breakfast tea, and - to his relief - Ana accepted it graciously and without commentary.

"What can I make for your breakfast?" Mrs. Jones asked, directing her inquiry to Anastasia, who looked questioningly at Christian.

"Pancakes and bacon good?" Christian suggested, remembering how eagerly Ana had devoured her portion at the Heathman.

She nodded enthusiastically, and Christian grinned, pleased with himself for already knowing what she liked. It was an oddly fulfilling realization.

"Pancakes and bacon for both of us, then, Mrs. Jones."

She nodded and returned to the stove, and Christian turned back to Anastasia. "How long do you think you'd like to have to look over the contract?" Ana cast a sharp, surprised glance sideways towards Mrs. Jones, and Christian laid his hand over hers reassuringly. "Don't be shy," he encouraged, hoping she'd understand that this was her pass to speak freely.

"I don't know, I don't anything about your… lifestyle. I don't even know how much there is for me to learn."

"There's a lot, but we'll take it slow in the beginning. You don't have to be prepared for everything at once."

"So says Mr. Control Freak," Anastasia muttered wryly. "That's easy for you to say, you already know everything there is to know."

"'Mr. Control Freak,' hmm?" Christian repeated, raising his eyebrows in amusement as Anastasia seemed to realize that she'd spoken aloud and dropped her gaze.

"You admitted it yourself," Ana defended quietly, chancing a glance up at his expression.

"It's apt, though I don't think I ever used quite those words."

"And yet you're not pushing for me to be entirely ready for this from the start. Is it because I'll be frightened away if I know everything?"

Anastasia's tone and eyes were merely teasing, but Christian stiffened anyway at this possibility that hadn't occurred to him. To Anastasia, however, he hid his new concern and assured her, "It's because I can take confidence in the knowledge that you'll be in capable hands." His eyes burned suggestively at her, and Anastasia leaned forward eagerly, close enough for Christian to smell the shampoo in her hair.

"Will I now?"

"Very capable." Christian moved his hand from where it had lain on the gleaming counter top and dropped it to Ana's knee. It squeezed gently there and then slid up along her bare thigh until it reached the hem of his overly long shirt that she wore. He edged his fingers just underneath the hem and drummed them lightly against her skin, enjoying the way the blood rushed to her face and her lips parted as he watched.

"Nonetheless," Christian continued more seriously, ceasing his drumming but leaving his hand in place, rubbing small circles gently into her sensitized skin, "I'd like you to know what you're getting yourself into. You'll take your copy of the contract home and look over it?"

"Yes."

"And contact me if you have any questions?" Ana hesitated only fractionally before Christian pressed more urgently, "I mean it. I don't want to leave you wondering about anything. If you want to ask or tell me anything, email or call right away. It doesn't matter how trivial you might think it is, I want to know."

"Okay."

"Do you have a cell phone?"

"Of course."

Christian narrowed his eyes skeptically. "A good one?"

"It'll do." Anastasia's mouth pursed in suspicion.

"I'll have a BlackBerry sent to you."

"I don't need-"

"I don't care if you need it. I'd like you to have one whether you need it or not."

Anastasia looked like she was going to argue, but Mrs. Jones returned to the table with full, steaming plates, and they both lapsed into comfortable silence as they began to eat.

* * *

**A/N:** Sorry if this chapter wasn't as interesting as you'd like it to be, I needed something to just establish where Christian and Ana are at with each other, after their somewhat unresolved negotiations the night before. Unfortunately, that means there's also not that much plot development going on, so my apologies if it's a little boring.

Dr. Flynn is in the next chapter, and he makes Christian have a new revelation.

Thanks for reading, and I'm looking forward to your responses, as always.


	16. Slip

**Slip**

Christian was inexplicably beaming when he strode into Dr. Flynn's office that Tuesday, and he smirked at Flynn's unmasked surprise.

"I'd ask how you're feeling," Dr. Flynn began as Christian seated himself in one of Flynn's armchairs and stretched out his legs, "but it seems fairly evident that you're in a good mood."

"Never been better," Christian answered breezily, genuinely meaning it, though the words were spoken casually.

"I take it your meeting with Anastasia went well this weekend? You didn't follow up with me afterwards, and I had expected that you would need to."

"It was good. You were right - she didn't leave when I showed her the playroom. She's brave, braver than she looks. And I let her sleep with me." Christian beamed at this last admission, aware that he looked like a little boy who was proud of having done his homework, but not particularly caring.

Flynn raised his eyebrows in confusion and flexed his clasped fingers. "You say that as if you weren't expecting it."

"No," Christian corrected, his demeanor dropping slightly as he realized the misunderstanding. "I let her _sleep_ with me. The whole night through. In my bed."

The approval that dawned over Flynn's face along with his comprehension made Christian uncomfortable, so he added superficially, "And Anastasia wasn't even drunk this time."

"This is progress, Christian," Dr. Flynn remarked gravely, and Christian wondered vaguely why it was that psychologists used the same doomsday tone for both incredibly good and incredibly bad news.

"It's not progress," Christian said, waving his hand dismissively and wishing that he hadn't presented it with so much weight. "It mattered to her, and I want to make her happy." It was such a simple thing to say, but for Christian it was like a revelation. He'd been wondering since he met her why she made him able to bend, to change, and there it was, plainly in front of him.

"I'm pleased to hear that," Dr. Flynn said, his voice breaking into Christian's realization. "It seems that I have more to congratulate you for than just finding another submissive."

Christian's brow furrowed at this and he corrected quickly, "It's not official yet - she hasn't signed the paperwork."

"No?" Dr. Flynn couldn't hide his surprise. "Then what?"

"She's thinking it over. I'm… giving her time." It sounded cliché on Christian's lips, but it was the truth.

"What about showing her your playroom? Sleeping with her?"

"There was no harm in letting her see the playroom first," Christian explained reasonably. "She wouldn't have known what to expect if I hadn't. And _sleep_ with her is _all _I did. I'm not taking any risks."

"You grasp how unusual this is for you?"

Christian shrugged. "She's an unusual woman."

"I would say so," Dr. Flynn smiled. "She's done more with you than I have in years."

"I thought she was going to leave." Christian knitted his fingers together in his lap and stared down at them.

"You always think people will leave, Christian."

"They usually do."

"Think that over, now. Is it really true?"

Christian narrowed his eyes at Dr. Flynn. "Do you think I'm throwing myself a pity party here?"

"No," Flynn answered, in spite of the small smile tugging at his mouth. "I'd just like you to see that you're more loved than you believe. So tell me. Who's left you?"

"The crack whore," Christian shrugged. And then, more unwillingly, "The pimp."

"You still struggle with that," Flynn observed, unnecessarily.

"He locked me in a room with my dead mother. Is my timetable on getting over that taking too long for you?"

"Don't be crass, Christian, it's unproductive."

"A four year old doesn't know that anybody's going to come back for them. He beat me, and I was afraid of him, but I wanted him to come back. Do you know what that's like? Waiting for someone you hate to come back, because they're the best hope you have?"

"You're very open today," Dr. Flynn remarked, unruffled by the fierceness in Christian's voice.

"What, are we changing topics now?"

"I was under the assumption that you don't like talking about your childhood."

"I was under the assumption that you like to make me uncomfortable."

"I think at the moment we have more to talk about regarding what's been happening in the present," Flynn answered, his eyes laughing in amusement.

"Like what?"

"Like Anastasia. How it seems that she's given you some perspective."

"I guess love does that," Christian mused, still studying his hands, entirely calm until he realized what he'd said and his head snapped back up to stare at Flynn with wide, horrified eyes.

"What are you _smiling_ at?" Christian snapped, glaring at the slightly smug set of Flynn's mouth.

Flynn didn't deign to respond, and Christian growled, "Stop smiling or I'll fire you."

"You wouldn't." Flynn's confidence was ingratiating.

"Want to find out?"

Flynn shrugged. "I'm not the one whose tongue slipped."

"I didn't mean it!" Christian protested, feeling like a juvenile teenager misstepping all over his first relationship.

"Really." Flynn sounded sarcastic.

"Don't be stupid. You think I'm in love?"

"I think that you said you were."

"I can't love. You know that."

"You seem to think you can."

"For Christ's sake, don't get so hung up over a meaningless little word."

"You're awfully upset for something that's meaningless."

"I'm going to fire you."

"You're deflecting."

"Fuck off."

"Christian."

"I'm don't have a _heart_. How am I supposed to be in _love_?"

"You're a human, Christian. You have a heart. You know how to love." Flynn ignored the withering look Christian shot him and continued, "You love Grace and Carrick. You love your siblings."

"That's different. I don't do romantic love," Christian insisted, horrified that he was having to explain something so self explanatory to his _shrink_. "I don't know how to be _in love_. I lost that a long time ago."

"You'll learn. From what you've told me, this will be new for Anastasia, too."

"Is that supposed to be reassuring? The fact that neither of us has any idea what we're doing? That neither of us are capable of being in fucking _control_?"

"My job isn't to reassure you. I believe you told me it was to make you uncomfortable."

"Mission accomplished," Christian growled. "What am I supposed to _do_?" Fall _out of love_?" He paused for a deep breath, and fixed Dr. Flynn with a glare. "This is your fault."

"And how do you reach that conclusion?"

"You told me to pursue her."

"What did you think you were going to get from that?"

"I thought I was going to get a submissive."

"No, you didn't."

"Like hell I didn't."

"You told me you didn't think she could be a submissive."

"And you told me to try anyway."

"I told you to pursue what you wanted. And you did. You didn't go in search of a submissive. You went in search of Anastasia."

"So it's my fault I'm in love with her now?"

Flynn smiled placidly, and Christian hated it. "Love is always our own fault, isn't it?"

"I'm going to ruin her," Christian moaned, running his hands roughly through his hair. "I'll destroy her."

"You won't."

"How do _you _know?"

"You told me yourself that she's brave. She'll be fine."

"She won't be." Christian looked like he was going to say more, but the buzzing of his phone cut him short, and he pulled it out and checked the screen. "It's Anastasia," he announced, glaring at Flynn as if this, too, was his fault.

Flynn said nothing, and Christian rose and strode to the door. "I'm leaving."

"You can take the call here. We have twenty minutes left." Flynn's voice was wary now.

"Charge me for the whole session later. I think I can survive a week on only forty minutes of therapy."

His voice was still sharp as he stepped into the elevator and answered the phone. "Anastasia."

She was silent, and his irritation melted into concern. "Ana?"

"Yeah, sorry, I just- Is now a bad time?"

"No, why?"

"You sounded busy."

"I'm not." Christian tried not to sound curt as replayed his session with Flynn in his mind.

"Okay." A pause, during which Christian worried about what she wanted, and then she asked, "Where were you?"

_Seeing my shrink who may or may not have talked me into ruining your life. _"In a meeting."

"Oh, am I interrupting?" She was so hesitant.

"No. We were done."

_So done._

"Are you sure? I can-"

"I'm positive." Christian considered his next words a moment before saying, "Actually, I was going crazy in there. Thanks for getting me out."

It won him a nervous laugh from Ana, and Christian found himself grinning as he stepped out of the elevator and into the backseat of his car. "What do you need?"

"What?"

"Well, you're calling me… do you have questions?"

"Not exactly," she answered, finally.

"Then what? Don't be shy. You can say it, whatever it is."

"I read the contract," she volunteered slowly. "And I got the BlackBerry you sent, and the laptop - which I don't want, by the way."

"You're deflecting," Christian told her with gentle amusement, his words mirroring the ones Dr. Flynn had spoken to him.

"Deflecting?"

"You're avoiding the subject by reminding me about your aversion to gifts."

"I know what it is, I just didn't think you'd know shrink-speak."

Christian laughed and refused to be distracted. "You can ask me anything, Ana." She said nothing, so Christian tried to help her along. "You said you read the contract?"

"Yeah."

"So how do you feel about it?"

"Overwhelmed," she answered eventually. "Intimidated."

"That's okay. Anything in particular that's making you nervous?"

"The punishments."

"Which ones?"

"I don't know," she said, more loudly, her words flowing more easily now. "That's the thing - I don't even know what they're going to feel like. I researched them, just like you told me to, but I still don't- …how am I supposed to know which ones I can handle?"

"Draw from experience," Christian said, furrowing his brow and wondering how to explain these things - things that were so familiar to him and to all his previous subs - to someone who'd never felt them before. "All the toys and punishments are there to accentuate sensations that are present in regular vanilla sex. None of it is going to be something that you wouldn't normally feel - it'll just be more intense. So if you try to tell me the limits you have in sex, I can tell you which punishments you-"

"I haven't," Ana whispered, interrupting him.

"You've _never_ had limits?" Christian asked, amazed until he remembered that what he'd had with Elena wasn't normal, and it was probably quite possible for normal people who could bear to be touched to have sex without limits.

"No, I've never had sex." Ana's voice was so soft that it was almost inaudible, but the words hit Christian like a wrecking ball anyway and left him breathless. He was speechless for so long that Ana must have wondered if he was still there, but she remained quiet.

"You. Have never. Had sex."

"Yes," she whispered.

"You're a virgin."

"I'm sorry."

"You're _apologizing_ for being a virgin."

"I don't know-"

"What is fucking _wrong _with me?"

"I-"

"Please don't answer that."

"Okay."

"I have to go. I'll call you back." Christian ended the call before she could answer, before he had time to become any more furious with himself and let it leak into his voice and make her think that he was angry with _her_. Because of course she'd think it was her fault. Just like she thought that it was her fault she was a virgin, too trusting and still miraculously too star-struck to see that it was his fault for not realizing how much he was tarnishing her by dragging her into his life.

It was no wonder that she hadn't been more frightened when he'd shown her the playroom. She'd had nothing right and normal and sane to compare it to. She'd gotten her very first impression of sex from him, and he'd made it something horrible and fraught with pain.

"Taylor," he snarled, glaring at the back of Taylor's head, visible over the top of the driver's seat's headrest.

"Sir?" Taylor was, as always, unruffled by his rage.

"Take me to Mrs. Lincoln's hair salon."

"Very good, sir." Taylor executed a perfect u-turn and they sped off in the opposite direction.

* * *

**A/N:** Sorry I didn't update sooner, I was busy with college visits and science fair and other senior-in-high-school responsibilities. I wish I could just write all the time instead.

I was going to mention some of my readers that I'm particularly thankful to for sticking with this story all this time, but once I got started, the list was getting way too long, so _thank you_ to all of you!

Please review! I don't get as much feedback for this story as I used to in the beginning.


	17. Fight

**Warning:** This chapter contains a description of Christian subbing for Elena. It's not more graphic than anything in the _Fifty Shades_ trilogy, but feel free to skip over it if underage sex is something you don't want to read. It's the flashback in italics, the rest of the chapter will make sense if you do choose not to read the flashback.

* * *

**Fight**

"Christian!" Elena beamed at him as the bells over the door of her hair salon tinkled merrily. "What a pleasant surprise." She strode over and looked up at him appraisingly. "Time for another haircut?" She reached up and ran her fingers through his hair, tousling it, her nails raking lightly against his scalp.

"Not this time. I need advice."

"Of course." Her hand left his hair immediately, and her face sobered, her eyes turning serious. "Come, there's a room in the back that's private."

"Leon, cancel my next appointment," she called to the well-groomed man at the reception desk, taking Christian's hand in a manner that was purely platonic - so different from the way she'd touched his hair - and leading him through a door that said in fine black print, "Authorized Personnel Only."

Inside, it was sleek and white, with round padded stools lined along a narrow, rectangular table that stretched the length of the room, an espresso maker on a counter, and high shelves stocked with hair product and supplies that reached to the ceiling.

"Can I get you some coffee?" Elena offered, pausing by coffee maker while she waved Christian to a seat on one of the stools.

"Do you have any wine?" Christian pulled his hand through his hair again and looked hopefully up at her.

"Don't tell the staff where I keep my emergency bottle." Elena winked playfully at Christian, and he made a halfhearted attempt to smiled back.

"What's wrong?" she asked, not fooled, returning with two glasses in one hand and a bottle of Zinfandel Blush in the other.

"Did you know I was a virgin the first time I subbed for you?"

Elena's blonde eyebrows arched delicately in surprise. "You don't waste time on small talk, do you?"

"No."

"You've never been curious about this type of thing."

"Did you?" Christian pressed, not blind to the fact that, after hearing nothing about Anastasia's weekend visit, Elena wanted information before she gave up any of her own.

"No," Elena sighed, "but it was clear that you were. You didn't let anybody touch you, and you refused to be loved. There was no chance you would have let yourself be intimate with anyone." There was a moment of silence during which they both reached for their wine glasses, and then Elena asked, "I assume this is about your new little brunette?"

"Anastasia." Christian narrowed his eyes disapprovingly. "Her name's Anastasia."

"You want her to be a submissive. As soon as she signs the contract, she'll be another nameless little brunette who looks like your mother, so you might as well get used to it now."

"You knew my name," Christian argued.

"Don't let it get to your head, Baby." Elena leaned forward and reached for Christian's hair again, grasping a short bit in the front and tugging it, tipping her head forward until his eyes met hers more directly. "Tell me what this is really about."

"She's just so inexperienced."

"You mean she's a virgin." Elena pursed her lips and dared Christian with her eyes to contradict her.

"Yes." In his surprise as her astute conclusion, he sounded almost as inexperienced as Ana.

"I could have told you that, darling."

"How?" The word was riddled with guilt.

"She's a delicate little girl who spooks too easily. Of course she's a virgin."

"I showed her my playroom." Disgust permeated Christian's voice.

"It's not your problem that she couldn't handle it."

"No, she _did_ handle it. That's the problem. She read the contract. What did I _do_?"

"Don't tell me you feel guilty for stealing away a little girl's innocence."

Christian's silence was as good as an admission, and Elena's hand moved from his hair onto his left cheek, where it pressed flat against his skin, her thumbnail stroking across his cheek. "I know you, and you don't pretend to be something you're not. That's who you are, and she decided she wanted it."

"She didn't know better."

"That's not your concern."

"I'm supposed to be in control for her, so that things like this don't happen. _You _taught me that. If I was in control, I'd have known. I wanted her too much to keep her safe from me." _Because apparently I love her._

Elena frowned and slapped his cheek, very lightly, but deliberately enough to remind Christian that, once, she had ruled him. The touch was playful, but the gesture was a clear admonishment. "When did you start being ashamed of what you do?"

"I'm not."

"Then why do you feel guilty?"

"Just because there's nothing wrong with my lifestyle for _me_ doesn't mean it's not wrong for somebody else."

"And is that your job? To make sure everyone is sheltered just as much as they need to be?"

"It's not about responsibility!" Christian finally snapped, frustrated at the fact that she couldn't understand. "I _want_ to be the right thing for her! I _want_ to be the person who can keep her safe."

"You really do care about her." Elena's voice was blank with surprise. "You poor idiot." Her nails raked down his cheek until her hand fell limply back into her lap. "I thought I taught you better."

"I thought so, too," Christian sighed.

"You need to stop. Leave it alone. Break off your contact with her."

"That's the _opposite_ of what I need."

Elena glared at him, and Christian was sure that, if this had been a decade ago, she'd have had him bent over the table in an instant with a paddle stinging his rear. "The last time you lectured me on what you need, you ended up taking a virgin home with you and showing her your playroom, and now you're here, coming running to me and expecting me to tell you how to survive the backlash."

"Fine." Christian was on his feet almost before Elena finished speaking. "I just thought that, since I was a virgin when we… I thought you might have advice, given how much you helped me. Obviously I was mistaken."

"Christian, when we began, you were hardly a virgin to pain and punishment."

"Were you?"

"What?"

"Why did you start?" It was a challenge, and they both knew it; the one question that Christian had always known he was silently forbidden to ask.

"Get out of my hair salon." Elena's voice was tightly calm, but her face had gone white.

"It's my hair salon. I own this building. I own your whole business. I could own _you _if I wanted to."

"We all know how rich you are," Elena hissed, standing as well, her wrath towering over Christian and making the part of him that remembered submitting to her want to bow to the force of her quietly subdued fury. "Where would all your money and your power and your precious _control _be without me? You had _nobody_ when you dropped out of college. Not even your perfect pair of parents. I _made _you."

She spat the words at him, each like a shard of broken glass. "I believed in you when you didn't even believe in yourself." She drew herself up to her full height, somehow becoming even taller. "And, from everything you've just said, maybe I shouldn't have. Maybe there was a reason why everyone else gave up."

"Shut up." Christian squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his fingers to his temples, torn between his instinct to submit and his rebellious will to fight back. But she was right. He didn't believe in himself, and it made fighting impossible. "Just. Shut. _Up_."

And then her finger was poised over his chest, pointing, not touching him, but close enough to send fear running all the way through him to his nerve endings, close enough to stop his breath in his throat and start his pulse racing and make his eyes fly wide open in sweeping anxiety.

Somehow, his tongue remembered how to function, and he growled, "Get away from me."

"Let's try this again. Get out of _my_ hair salon."

Instead of making him move, however, her words transported him, and suddenly he was a sixteen year old boy again, and Elena had handcuffed both his hands over his head and was kneeling between his legs.

* * *

"_What did I tell you about drinking?"_

_Silence._

_Her hands, braced on either side on his bare thighs, tightened, her manicured nails biting into his flesh. "Answer me!"_

"_I can drink if I feel like it. You're not my mom."_

"_No, no I'm not your mother. I'm your dominant, and when I'm finished you're not going to forget it." She leaned forward, unfurling her body over his with tantalizing, delicious slowness, causing the desirous burn in Christian's loins to rip into a full blaze, even in spite of his knowledge that this could only result in a lesson in pain, not pleasure._

_She crept up the length of his body with a feline, predatory stealth in the way her shoulders rose and fell, moving until she was stretched out over him, flesh on warm flesh, her head just below his chin, her eyes locked on his._

_She kissed the edge of his jaw, her tongue swirling against it, her teeth sending thrills through him when they dragged sweetly, too briefly, across his skin._

_Christian tipped his head back and moaned involuntarily._

_Elena reached up with her right hand - shifting her weight to the left for balance as she did so - and slapped him across the cheek, hard, with shocking force given her position._

"_Let's try this again," she had purred. "What did I tell you about drinking?"_

"_You told me not to," Christian gasped, still breathless from her blow._

"_That's right."_

"_And what did you do?"_

"_I drank."_

"_And will you do that again?"_

"_No."_

"_I think you're lying. Do you remember how I feel about lying?"_

_Elena didn't wait for an answer for that. Instead, she ducked her head down and bit gently at one of Christian's scars._

_It was unexpected and sudden, and it was all it took to make Christian scream._

"_Quiet." Elena's voice was harsh, and Christian wasn't quiet as Elena's teeth returned to his chest, biting and sucking, her weight pinning him in place in spite of how he bucked and thrashed underneath her._

_Christian's shouts cut off abruptly and he went silent, his head flung back, the tendons in his wrists tight and prominent as he strained involuntarily against their restrains, his eyes squeezed shut and his mouth twisted in fear and pain._

_Elena bit particularly hard at the scar nearest his heart, and Christian exploded into frantic noise again, screaming a garbled mix of swearing and safe wording._

_Elena's tongue ran over the scar one last time before she lifted her head, panting, and staring triumphantly at Christian. "Will you drink again?"_

"_N- no," Christian managed, his voice shaking._

"_Good." Elena reached up again and caressed Christian's face. "You see? This time, you mean it."_

* * *

"I _said_, let's try this again," Elena's voice snapped Christian back into the present. "Get the hell out."

Christian opened his eyes, unaware that he'd closed them during the flashback, and snatched his wineglass up from the table, draining it and hoping that the alcohol would calm his irrational fear.

Elena wouldn't touch him. That had been the last time she'd touched him in any of the forbidden places. She'd come to him the next day and apologized, apologized for not respecting his boundaries merely because she hadn't understood them, apologized for not stopping immediately after he'd safe worded. She'd begun to try to understand him, and he'd allowed her to, and she'd never invaded his limits since. He had no reason to be afraid of her now.

The abstract knowledge of that did little to assuage his panic.

"I'm leaving," he growled, trying to make it sound like it was his choice, rather than an order he was following.

Once he was outside, he strode around to the driver's side of his car and held his hand out to Taylor, palm up, for the keys. "I'm driving."

"Sir, you've had a call-"

"I don't want to hear it." Christian swung his legs into the car, inserted the key, and it came to life, roaring angrily as he revved the engine.

"It's a very prestigious-"

"Is anyone injured?"

"What? No." Taylor, for once, sounded bewildered.

"Is anyone dying?"

"No, sir," Taylor recovered himself.

"Then deal with whatever it is and don't say another word about it to me until tomorrow."

"Sir, I think-"

"Don't think. Listen. Tomorrow."

"Very good, sir."

Christian shifted the car into gear, the engine snarling, and tore out into Seattle traffic at a speed that would have been unsafe for anyone, even Taylor, not caring as he gripped the steering wheel so hard that his knuckles turned white, trying to remind himself that there were still things he could control.

* * *

**A/N: **I know how much you all despise Elena, so I hope you didn't mind this chapter too much. Thanks for reading!


	18. An Understanding

**An Understanding**

"Mr. Grey, I think we need to discuss the call I received for you yesterday."

Christian took a sip of coffee and glanced impatiently over at the egg white omelet Mrs. Jones was flipping over the stove.

"This could be urgent."

"Fine," Christian answered finally, turning his attention away from yesterday's argument with Elena and back to Taylor, who was seated opposite from him at the kitchen island. "It can't wait for my briefing this morning?"

"I think you'll want to hear this now."

"What is it?"

"Andrea got a call from someone who wanted a meeting with you. She tried to schedule him in, but he was very demanding that this needed to happen now."

"As is every overly zealous fool who wants something from me. Andrea knows how to deal with those types. Why are you interrupting my breakfast for this?" Christian asked critically, taking his plate of food from Mrs. Jones and taking a bite of omelet.

"He claimed to have a connection to you, to get a meeting in earlier. He listed personal details about you to try to prove it, and Andrea was rightfully concerned, so she transferred him to me."

Christian arched an eyebrow and chastised, "Andrea should know better than to fall for that trick. My life has been made public, it's not very difficult to come up with information on me."

Taylor's eyes moved uncomfortably over to Mrs. Jones, and Christian wondered what could have happened that would make Taylor uncertain - especially of Gail. "Mr. Grey, he claimed to know your birth mother. He gave a name for her."

The disapproval in Christian's face turned to concern instantly, and he swallowed his mouthful of coffee in a panicked gulp, the liquid burning all the way down his throat. "Nobody except my parents and I know the name of my birth mother," he said tightly when he found that he could speak again.

"I know, sir."

"What did he say her name was?"

"Ella."

Christian could feel the blood draining from his face.

"Sir, are you alright?"

"I- yes." Christian struggled to keep his voice objectively monotone.

"The name he gave is correct?"

"Yes," Christian answered, though in a tone that clearly warned Taylor to remember his place. "Who is this guy?"

"His name is Larron Voleur."

"Run a background check on him."

"I already have, sir." Taylor reached into a briefcase he'd placed on the floor and withdrew from it several sheets of paper that he passed across the table to Christian. "He attended the Ecumenical Theological Seminary in Detroit until May, 1983, at which point he moved to Ann Arbor and began his junior year of study as a Business major at University of Michigan."

"He went from religion to business." Even though it wasn't a question, the skepticism was clear in Christian's tone.

"It appears so. He went on to graduate Cum Laude in 1985 and became the founder of Forging Bonds."

"Which is?"

"An organization that aids unemployed and struggling workers. He started with local steel companies in Michigan, but he's expanded over the years. He's amassed quite a lot of funds and his organization has experienced growing recognition since the recession hit."

"And what does he want from me?"

"Just a meeting," Taylor shrugged apologetically. "I couldn't get him to say more than that, but he was very insistent. What would you like to do?"

"I'll see him, but I'd like you to keep tabs on him."

"Very good, sir."

"Have Andrea schedule him in, but don't put a rush on it. He can wait."

* * *

Christian stared at his BlackBerry and tried to will it to ring. Tried to will Dr. Flynn to remember the scattered end to their last session and call to make sure he hadn't done something stupid.

The phone was silent, and Christian groaned and dialed the number himself. It rang three times before Margaret, the receptionist, answered, "Flynn Psychiatric Offices."

"Put me through to Flynn. This is Christian Grey."

"Dr. Flynn is on his lunch break. I can fit you in" - there was a brief pause and the sound of typing in the background - "tomorrow at three o'clock. He's fully booked until then."

"This is _Christian Grey_," Christian repeated, thinking vaguely that Anastasia would disapprove of this kind of name-dropping. "And Flynn owes me twenty minutes. Put me through."

"This is very out of the ordinary, Mr. Grey-"

"Ordinary people don't have shrinks. Put me through."

"One moment," Margaret snapped, her voice unprofessional and irritated.

There was a click, and then Dr. Flynn's amused voice filled the silence, chuckling, "You've alienated my receptionist, Christian. Tell me what's the matter, it better be good if it was worth annoying my staff."

"I've alienated my friends, too, apparently, so you can tell your receptionist she's not alone," Christian answered dryly.

"Is that why you're calling? Because you and Elena can't get along? Christian, I hope my soup isn't getting cold just because you're telling me about a little tiff."

"I thought she could tell me what to do about Anastasia."

"And now you think that I'm going to tell you instead?"

Christian frowned, realizing how juvenile he sounded. "I was hoping you would." His voice was properly abashed.

"Why do you think that is?" Flynn's voice had changed, and Christian heard it, the transition from an acquaintance whose lunch had been interrupted into a psychologist, professional and on-the-job and ready with a waiting arsenal of over-analysis and introspective questions instead of useful answers.

"I don't know, Flynn, why don't you tell me?" _You sound like a whiny teenager_, Christian's mind unhelpfully pointed out to itself, but he pushed the irritating truth aside. After all, Flynn was never hesitant to make it clear that, emotionally, Christian was still an adolescent. It wasn't as though Christian had anything to lose by proving Flynn right.

"I think it's because you're looking for someone to take the responsibility for you."

"That doesn't sound like something I'd do," Christian remarked dryly.

"Are you sure about that? You lived as a submissive for years, and that is still a part of how you think and understand. You're afraid that if you pull Ana closer, you'll be guilty of corrupting her, and you're afraid that if you push her away, you'll regret letting her go. So you're trying to take the easy way out. You want to cede the responsibility of that decision to someone else. And it sounds like the kind of thing a submissive would depend on a dominant for."

"I take that as a 'No, Christian, I'm not going to tell you what to do.'"

"You catch on quickly." Dr. Flynn's smile was nearly tangible in his voice. "It was a good try, but you're own for this. Can I finish my lunch now?"

"You owed me these twenty minutes," Christian reminded Flynn, no real force in his tone.

"God forbid I find myself indebted to Christian Grey."

Christian raised his eyebrows, thrown by this uncharacteristic reference to his power. Flynn usually made a point of ignoring the fact that he lead an empire - it was, Flynn claimed, a distraction that was too easy to hide behind.

A moment later, Flynn continued, explaining himself, "Margaret mentioned your notion that your name can get you appointments whenever you want."

"It worked, didn't it?"

"I'll have to remind Margaret that we don't cater to fame here."

"Everybody caters to fame," Christian answered, his voice turning somber and sincere. "It's the first rule of business."

"Thank God I'm not in business."

* * *

That evening, when Christian called her, Anastasia answered her phone halfway through the first ring, and Christian couldn't help but smile, even in the face of the gaping problem that he still hadn't resolved. He liked to be prepared. He liked to enter conversations as he did business agreements - with a goal and knowledge of what he was willing to bargain for in order to achieve it.

Now, though, it hardly seemed appropriate to negotiate anything over the phone, where he couldn't see her, couldn't read her thoughts on her face.

Especially when she surprised him by not sounding breathless or young or anything remotely inexperienced when she snapped shortly, "Hi," with a touch of asperity that challenged even Christian's own crisp phone manners.

"Hi." And somehow she'd turned _him_ into the breathless one. "It's Christian."

"I know." And now there was something more than just confidence there, something Christian had been too eager to notice before - a hint of irritation in her voice.

"Is now a bad time?" he asked, wary now.

"Of course not. As long as it's finally a good time for _you_, why wouldn't it be a perfectly fine time for me?" The annoyance was so plain now that Christian wondered how he'd missed it at first.

"Are you angry at me?"

"Oh, are you the only one who's allowed to be angry?"

Christian frowned, running a frustrated hand through his hair. He'd heard so many times that women were baffling, and he'd always disagreed, thought that it seemed pretty straightforward. There were limits; you followed them, there were safe words; you stopped when someone used one. It was simple. Except he was obviously quite mistaken.

"What did I do wrong?"

"I called you _yesterday_. You told me you were in a meeting."

Christian's brow furrowed; it seemed so long ago. "I was."

"You told me you'd call me back."

"I… am?" Christian tried, lost as to where he'd committed any offence.

"I assumed that 'I'll call you back' meant soon. Like in fifteen minutes. Or an hour. Maybe even later that evening. Not a _day later_."

"I'm sorry," Christian said, his voice still blank from surprise. It wasn't as if she'd been waiting by the phone… or had she been? She'd answered so quickly, after all. "I just had a lot to think about. You gave me some information that surprised me. I needed time." _Wasn't that something normal people did, too? Taking time?_

"Well as long as you're busy working things out, I'll just be fine waiting indefinitely here."

"Ana, please."

"Please _what_?"

"I said I was sorry."

"So?"

"I don't apologize very often. And never more than once."

"You must have left unconditional forgiveness out of the contract."

_I've learned that the word unconditional doesn't apply to me. _"You're being difficult on purpose."

"So are you." There was a distinct pout in her voice, and Christian tried not to wonder what her lips looked like when they pouted.

"So you're going to stay mad at me for- what? Another day? A week? I don't know what you want from me."

He could hear Ana exhale loudly into the phone, and he imagined her rolling her eyes on the other end. "I'm not going to stay mad at all. I'm just making a point."

"What's your point?"

"That you can't just say you'll call me back and take a whole day getting around to it. _Especially_ when I've just told you something that might scare you away."

Christian frowned; that was new. He'd never had a sub worry that _he'd_ be the one to get frightened off. "Do I strike you as a skittish person, Ana?"

"You ran away from our conversation pretty fast."

"I thought you said you weren't mad."

"I'm not. I'm just saying, if hanging up to avoid talking isn't getting scared off, I don't know what it is."

"I was afraid of myself, not of you," Christian tried to explain.

"Afraid that you swindled away my wide-eyed innocence?"

"Actually, yes."

"If I recall correctly, _I'm _the one who chose debasement. You've been pretty honest about what you want."

"But how can you know what you're getting yourself into when you have no reference point? When you don't even know what normal feels like? What if you regret me? How will you know if you even want me?"

Christian stopped, breathing hard, and realized with amazement that sometime in the midst of him loving her, it had ceased to be about if she wanted BDSM, and had become about if she wanted _him_.

_And how could she?_

"I trust you, Christian. That's how I'll know."

"You shouldn't," Christian whispered, hating himself for pushing her away, and then hating that he was selfish enough to be wishing that he wasn't giving her this warning.

"Do you trust yourself?"

"No."

"You trusted yourself with the other women."

"You're different."

"But why?" Ana asked, her voice forceful but not angry, just curious. "It can't just be that I'm a virgin. I'm inexperienced, but I'm not naïve. So why am I different?"

_Because I love you._

"You just are."

"That's not an answer."

"I know." _It's the best I can do._

"Fine. So you don't trust yourself. Can you trust me?"

"I'm not used to trusting anybody."

"I'm not anybody, I'm different," Ana argued, a smile audible in her voice as she twisted his own words to somehow disagree with him. "You told me that submission is important to you because you want to earn my trust."

_Oh… right. I hadn't mentioned that it's also important because it fills emotional deficiencies the crack whore left behind. _"I did," Christian agreed aloud.

"I want you to trust me, too."

"I do," Christian whispered fervently. It was the truth. He'd never trusted anybody with his love before. Surely other kinds of trust were also manageable.

"Really?" Hope made her voice beautiful.

"Yes."

"So is virginity still a problem?"

Christian contemplated this, trying to understand why, even in light of the realizations he'd just reached, it still seemed like he was taking advantage of her. He was silent for too long, evidently, because Ana sighed and asked with some impatience, "What now?"

"I do trust you, but I can't rationalize trusting you to keep yourself safe with me, not when you don't understand."

"Understand _what_? What's this terrible thing that I still don't know?"

_That I'm fifty shades of fucked up. _It took a moment for Christian to realize that he'd whispered this aloud, but Ana either hadn't heard or chose to ignore it.

Instead, she coaxed, "Tell me," her voice verging on pleading. "Let me understand."

"I don't think I want you to," Christian whispered, his voice thick with shame.

"I thought you trusted me," Ana said softly, and Christian's shame only intensified at the sound of quiet, rejected hurt in her voice.

"You'll leave if you know."

"I won't."

"You can't even imagine the depravity you'd be running from." And now, Christian's voice was harsher, bitter.

"Then let me try this with you, until you believe that I'm not going anywhere."

"You're very persuasive, you know."

"Is that a yes?"

"It means I'll try. But I have a point of contention."

"What?" Her voice was wary, and Christian was thankful for it.

"I'm eliminating the contract."

"Why?"

"Because you're not signing something you're not fully educated on. I won't let you."

"I thought you need it."

"I'll make do without it."

"What about how it shows commitment and keeps me safe and all that?"

"I'll keep you safe, Ana," Christian vowed. "Do you believe me?"

"Of course I do."

Even though, coming from Ana, it meant almost nothing, it was reassuring nonetheless that at least _someone_ could trust him - even if it was only because they didn't know any better. "You have to promise to use the safe words when you need to. I won't have a list of your limits, so I won't know when I'm doing something wrong unless you tell me."

"Sure." And suddenly, just when he needed her to realize how serious this was, her tone had turned casual again.

"I mean it, Ana."

"I will. I promise. Okay?"

"Okay," Christian agreed finally. "Since we aren't going to have scheduled days… do you want to come see me this weekend?" Ana hesitated for just a moment, and Christian was backtracking as quickly as he could. "You can wait longer, if you want, if you need to do more research-"

"I'll come on Saturday, but I'm busy Sunday."

"Oh. What are you doing?"

"I'm packing for the move. I'll be in Seattle by next week."

"Can I come and help you pack?" The offer was out of Christian's mouth before he had time to think about it, and he wondered what had possessed him to cross the lines of a purely BDSM relationship. With any other woman, he might have sent Sawyer or someone to help, if anything at all. He'd never have volunteered himself. But somehow, words kept spilling out of his mouth, and he was babbling, as if he was desperate or something. "I could fly you back to Portland on Sunday morning, if you want, and give you a hand with whatever you need. Or just keep you company. If you'd like me to."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"That would be nice."

"Then I'll see you on Saturday."

* * *

**A/N:** Sorry I haven't been updating as often as I used to. Believe me, I want to write as much as you want to read it, but I'd rather make everyone wait for something that's decently written than give you all shoddy work to read on a regular basis. From past experience, I've learned that if I force it and start posting stuff that's of lower quality than I'd like, I end up losing touch with my characters' voices and losing the direction of the plot.

There won't be an update next weekend because I'll be in New York City visiting the screenwriting program at NYU, but after that I'll write as fast as I can.

Thanks for your patience, and I hope you enjoyed the chapter.


	19. Hearts and Flowers

**Hearts and Flowers**

Christian watched Ana's face carefully as she stepped out of the elevator into his apartment. There was a vase of white lilies on the round table in the great room - he'd sent Taylor out for them, because it was a little thing to give, the least he could do - and a vanilla scented candle burning there that Mrs. Jones must have thought to light.

He slid Ana's jacket off her shoulders and offered his hand to her, leading her to the couch and making a mental note to thank Mrs. Jones and tell her to buy more candles. As someone who didn't like fire play, he'd never been partial to that particular romantic gesture, but Ana's eyes lit up at the sight of it, and she was leaning over it now, inhaling the scent deeply.

"This is nice," she smiled at him shyly. "I thought you didn't do hearts and flowers."

"That was before I knew you'd never had hearts and flowers."

"And that makes a difference?"

Christian squinted carefully at her, wondering if she wanted it to make a difference. "Every woman should have a candlelit dinner," he said, instead of telling her that, yes, of course it made a difference. How could it not be, when this - all of this - was about her, what she wanted, and how capable he'd be of fulfilling it?

"You're going to make me eat?" Ana asked, raising her eyebrows.

"Did you really think I'd let you get off without dinner?"

"Of course not, Mr. Grey."

Christian stared at her, hesitating a moment before she lifted her warm eyes to his, and he smiled, laid his hand over hers, and said, a couple weeks overdue, "Please, call me Christian."

"Really? What about-" Ana broke off and dropped her gaze before she finished tentatively, "What about the contract?"

"There's no contract tonight," Christian said softly, slipping his arm around Ana's waist and hoping it was the type of thing a boyfriend might do. "Tonight is to show you what a normal relationship looks like."

"Why?"

This time, Christian was the one who refused to look up, even when he could feel Ana's eyes burning through him and lighting him on fire. "Because I had nothing to compare it to when I subbed, and if things had turned out differently, I might have spent a lot of time being bitter about that."

"You'd do that for me?" Her voice was hopeful, and it made Christian's chest twinge with guilt.

"Tonight, yes." He tried to stress the word _tonight_, to make sure she understood that this was temporary, only for a reference, and her face seemed to fall slightly in what looked like concern. _What if that wasn't enough to keep her happy_?

"Are _you _bitter?" So the concern had been for him, not for her.

"No, I'm not. But you're not anything like me, and bitterness wouldn't become you. Come," Christian added, purposefully changing the subject. "Let's eat." He rose and moved towards the kitchen. "Mrs. Jones made roast chicken with potatoes and asparagus."

"You're avoiding the topic."

He stopped, halfway to the kitchen. "Yes. I meant what I said in our interview. I'm a private man, and I don't like to talk about my past." Ana followed him and watched as he pulled silverware and plates from drawers and shelves. He was on the verge of serving when Ana stopped him.

"Wait."

"What?" Christian turned to stare at her warily, expecting some kind of argument or rebuttal.

"Put the plates in the oven first."

"Why?"

"Here," Ana said, pushing past him and moving the stack of plates to a rack in the oven. "To warm them."

"There's a plate warmer somewhere, I forgot about it. I usually eat right away and-"

"You have a plate warmer?"

Christian gave her a perplexed gaze. "Why shouldn't I?"

"Because you don't need one," she answered briskly, all her shyness gone.

"I have a lot of things I don't need, Ana."

"Doesn't it feel homier to do it this way?"

"As someone who doesn't cook, I'm not sure that feeling _homey_ takes precedence over convenience for me," he told her dryly.

"You know, for someone with a food issue, I would have thought you'd have at least some interest in cooking it, too."

"I have a _food issue_?"

"Yes. Are you trying to avoid the subject again?"

"No," Christian answered bemusedly, wondering if it was something he _should_ be avoiding. "I just don't understand."

"I'm just surprised that you don't want to be more involved with your own food - make sure it's all healthy and organic and none of it's wasted, all that," Ana shrugged.

"Mrs. Jones has been instructed only to buy sustainable, local products," Christian assured her, furrowing his eyebrows and gazing at Ana with bewilderment. _What did she want to hear?_

She giggled, and Christian relaxed slightly, though he wasn't sure why. "You don't have to justify yourself! I just thought, given your obsession with control- I mean, it's not like you hesitate to get all over what the rest of us eat."

"I apologize if I'm overbearing-"

"It doesn't bother me," Ana said easily, not bothering to look up at him as she withdrew the plates from the oven and began to fill them with food. "It's… endearing."

"_I'm _endearing." His voice was incredulous.

"Sometimes," Ana said, keeping her eyes on the food, her cheeks pinking lightly.

"You don't have to do that," Christian said quickly, nodding his chin at the chicken breast she was dismantling and shifting the subject before she could think she had anything to be embarrassed for. "I was going to carve it for you. That's the gentlemanly thing to do, after all, isn't is?"

"Are you sure you know how? If you don't even cook?"

"I'm sure I would have managed alright," Christian told her wryly, thinking that he ought to tell her to mind her tongue, but finding it oddly pleasant.

"It's fine," she told him. "I like cooking."

"That's in the contract, you know," Christian offered, too off-put by their exchange to realize until the words were already out of his mouth that that was something he should not, perhaps, have mentioned.

Ana seemed unconcerned, however, and peered up at him with interest. "Your subs have to cook for you?"

"Yes." Christian looked at her sheepishly, knowing what was coming next.

"The other day you said I wasn't allowed to cook."

"I was trying to be a gentleman. Not that you make it easy for me."

Ana grinned and asked coaxingly, "Can we cook together?"

_No. That's not how it works._ But she was beaming up at him so hopefully, and preparing their dinner together hadn't been unpleasant, really, and Christian found himself nodding and saying, "Okay."

"Then dinner's served, Mr. Grey."

"I told you, you're not my submissive tonight."

"Then what am I?"

The words tasted unfamiliar and thrilling on Christian tongue as he answered, "You're my date."

* * *

"You seem worried," Ana remarked after their meal, as she leaned in closer to Christian on his couch and placed her glass of wine back on the table.

Christian sighed deeply and looked down at her. "I guess I am."

"About me?" And as if she was doing it on purpose, her teeth moved down to tug at her lip.

"Stop that," Christian admonished absently, trapping her chin between his index finger and thumb and leaning in to kiss her. When he pulled away, her questioning eyes stared back at him, and he assured her, "Not about you."

"Then what?"

"Nothing you need to be concerned about," he murmured, kissing her hair and sliding his arm around her back to rub gently at her hip.

"Does that mean it's none of my business, or that you don't want me to worry?"

"Both," Christian chuckled, losing his hand in her hair and pulling it back to turn her face up to his. "But if I've been preoccupied, it's certainly not intentional or deserved," he added, trailing his nose along her jaw, from earlobe to chin.

"Deserved?"

"You're worthy of all the attention in the world," Christian whispered against her lips. "It's my job to show you that. Not to give you a reason to question it."

"That's a little dramatic." Ana's lips smiled underneath Christian's.

"And how is that?"

"I wouldn't call it your _job._"

"I'm your dominant. It's my job to make sure you're happy and satisfied."

"I don't think that's fair," Ana said slowly, narrowing her eyes with a sincerity that frightened Christian for a moment. "If I'm exempt from the duties of being a submissive for the evening-" she paused and rubbed her nose against Christian's, "-then I think you ought to be able to relax your dominant role, too."

"Fine," Christian conceded, surprised at how easily he yielded to this demand that would have been outrageous if it had been posed by anyone else.

"That means you can stop being a control freak long enough to tell me why you're worried."

"No." Christian pulled back and gazed at Ana sternly.

"Please?"

"No."

"How am I supposed to believe that it's not something I'm doing if you won't tell me what it is?"

Christian paused, very aware of what was clearly a strategy on Ana's part, but he sighed finally and answered curtly, "If you must know, it's work and Elena." He watched as Ana's expression soured, and continued, "See? There's a reason I keep the various parts of my life separate. Business requires discipline."

"Am I allowed to ask what your problem with the pedophile is?"

Christian stiffened, anger flaring in his belly. He'd promised her a spanking if she said that again, and yet… he'd also promised her a date, and he was fairly certain, in spite of his limited experience, that a normal date with a virgin didn't involve a trip to the playroom. "I think you should rephrase that."

"Fine," Ana rolled her eyes. "Am I allowed to ask what your problem with Mrs. Robinson is?"

Christian repressed a smile at her alternative nickname and replied carefully, "We had an argument."

"About what?"

"You." Christian removed his arm from Ana's waist and regarded her with caution.

Sure enough, she turned to face him, her expression hard and, behind it, in her eyes, injured. "You needed advice on how to deal with me?"

"Actually, yes. I've never tried this with anybody so experienced, and Elena has. I thought she might be able to enlighten me."

"On what? How to be a sick, twist-" Ana stopped short at the look in Christian's eyes and revised, "Did it help?"

"No. She proved very… unhelpful, to say the least."

"What did she say?"

"Ana, you have to understand, she's normally very open, and the things she's done for me are-"

"I don't think I can hold my tongue if you try to tell me how wonderful she is."

"Fair enough," Christian said. "She thought I shouldn't attempt to do this with you, for my own well being."

Ana's expression ranged from surprise to fury, and then, gradually, to a quiet pride. "But I'm here anyway."

"Yes." Christian reached up to stroke her cheek, admiring how his touch brought the color to it.

"You didn't listen to her."

"Contrary to what you seem to believe, I don't allow anybody other than myself to make my decisions," Christian answered wryly.

"Good," Ana muttered, a combination of defiant and pleased airs.

"Are you satisfied now?" Christian asked, laughter in his voice.

"Can I ask what your work problem is?"

"Absolutely not."

"I thought you're only opposed to sharing your personal life."

"This involves my personal life."

Ana's expression sobered instantly, and she dropped her gaze. "Sorry."

"See?" Christian stroked her back once and his hand moved to play absentmindedly with her hair. "Now you're worrying about me. You're not supposed to do that."

"You're supposed to worry about the people you care about."

Christian ignored the spark of joy shouting _she cares about you!_ and shook his head at her. "You're impossible. It's not something worth worrying about. I have a pushy client, that's all."

"Mr. Domineering can't handle a little pushiness from someone else?" Ana smiled up at him, clearly trying to lighten his mood.

"Mr. Domineering isn't sure how to handle a client who has information about my childhood that he shouldn't know."

"Oh." Ana's smile disappeared and was replaced with a soft kind of anxiousness that didn't include the pity Christian knew he would have hated. "Thanks for telling me."

"Like I said, it's not a big deal. I'm sure that anyone who got their hands on a good investigator would be able to come up with a few validating details to bait me with. Taylor's been trying to see if he can trace the information trail."

"What kind of details?"

Christian sighed and buried his nose in Ana's hair. "The name of my birth mother. And that's all you're getting out of me."

"Do you remember her?" Ana asked quietly.

And in spite of what he'd just said, Christian found himself closing his eyes and answering stiffly, "Yes. Vividly."

"I guess that's good."

"Not really."

"She wasn't a good mother?" Ana tipped her head to look up at Christian, her eyes round and concerned.

"No." Christian couldn't disguise the hate in his voice.

Ana didn't speak or move. She looked up at him with a kind of blank non-comprehension, and Christian saw that she'd lived in a world so different from his that she wouldn't be able to see how he could hate someone whose blood he'd shared - not when she'd so idealized him in her mind when she first met him, and not when she didn't know how justified that particular part of his nature was.

"That's enough talking," Christian said briskly, taking Ana's hand in his and rubbing his thumb over her knuckles. "Will you come upstairs with me?"

Ana's eyes widened, and her full lips parted as she inhaled with a quiet noise of surprise. "Upstairs?" The question she was really asking was implicit in her voice.

"Not to the playroom. To my bedroom."

"Am I going to be your date or your submissive?" Her voice wavered uncertainly.

"My date," Christian breathed. "I want to show you what you deserve to have."

"What do I deserve?"

_Love._

Because Christian couldn't say it, he shook his head and whispered the thing closest to the truth, the thing that he could promise to her and trust himself to follow through on. "Love making."

* * *

**A/N:** I know, I've been awful about updating. Travel and family stuff and exams and choosing a college just got in the way of my writing. But my classes are over now, and I decided where I'll be going to college in the fall, and in a couple weeks I'll have graduated, and then I'll have time to write. If you're still reading this, then thank you so much for being patient and returning to this story. And thank-you as well to the people who reviewed to check in with me and ask that I continue the story. You guys are great.

I'm not going to end this story until it feels finished, I just need to take some time off from writing once in a while for some perspective. If I don't, I start to question myself, and my characterization gets all wrong. I'd rather not write for a while than write something that I'm not proud of.

Sorry for the wait, and I hope you enjoyed the chapter.


	20. Virgin Territory

**Virgin Territory**

Ana was almost shaking as Christian led her into his bedroom and shut the door behind them. He turned to face her, and she lifted wide, blue eyes up to his. "Are you afraid?" he asked, reaching out and rubbing her shoulders gently.

She shook her head, and, with the gesture, Christian's insecurity with himself evaporated into concern for her. "Then what is it?"

"I'm just nervous." Her voice ended in a high, timorous laugh, and she rubbed her palms against each other uncomfortably.

Christian tapped his index finger against his lips for a moment, thinking, and then instructed authoritatively, "Turn around."

Ana stared at him questioningly, and Christian smiled, at ease now that he knew the role he was going to take. "I won't do anything without telling you first. Turn around."

She turned, slowly, Christian guiding her with his hands on her shoulders. Once her back was facing him, Christian gathered her hair and pulled it aside, around to her front, and kissed the nape of her neck tenderly. Her skin there was delicate and smooth and pale. "What are you nervous about?"

"That I'll do something wrong."

"Would you feel better if I told you what to do?"

Ana nodded, and Christian wondered if there was a bit of submission in her, after all.

"Okay. What else?"

"That it'll hurt."

"It's a good kind of hurt," Christian told her, skimming his nose over the notch of her first vertebrae. "I'll be gentle. Trust me?"

She nodded again, and swallowed loudly.

"What else?"

A shrug.

"Ana, tell me. We made a deal. You have to tell me what you're thinking if I'm going to be able to this without a contract."

She shook her head, and Christian could hear her breathing quicken in anxiety.

"Please, Ana. I promise I won't mind, whatever it is."

"I'm afraid you won't like me." Her voice was a thin, brittle whisper.

Christian had spun her around to face him in an instant, and took her face between his hands, forcing her to make eye contact. "Anastasia. You're beautiful. You're breathtaking. You're irresistible. I will like you."

"Okay." Her eyes didn't believe a word of it.

"Say it."

"What?" Her brow furrowed, and she bit her lip softly. Christian chose not to point it out.

"Say what I just said, so I know you believe me."

"I'm beautiful?" Her voice turned it into a question, but Christian ignored it.

"Go on," he nodded encouragingly.

"I'm breathtaking." This time, the stress was gone from Ana's forehead.

"And?"

"I'm irresistible." Her lips quirked up, amused.

"There's more," Christian reminded her.

"No." And suddenly, her cheeks were flaming.

"Yes. Tell me." Ana tried to look down, and Christian caught her chin, lifting her burning eyes back to his. "Tell me."

"You're going to like... me."

"That's right." Christian's voice was full of pride. Ana's eyes were dark and eager, and Christian wondered if he'd discovered a new form of foreplay. He leaned down and kissed her lips, which parted easily for him, allowing him to taste her warmth and the accents of wine from their dinner. "I'm going to enjoy every part of you," he whispered huskily into her mouth.

"I'm going to undress you," he gasped breathlessly when he finally drew away. He gazed at Ana for a moment for approval, and when she didn't object, he reached for the edge of her green, clingy shirt, letting his fingers skim around the waistband of her jeans before he grasped the hem of her shirt and pulled it upwards. She raised her arms cooperatively, and when Christian tugged the shirt free and tossed it aside, she was standing there, her slender arms over her head, her chest uplifted in a black bra.

Christian's fingers dropped to the button of her jeans, and Ana nodded her consent, her face alive with anticipation now. He popped the button free and undid the zipper, then stepped closer and put his arms around her, his hands sliding around to the small of her back and then slipping into the waistband of her loosened jeans, lowering them with terrible slowness as his hands glided down the backs of her thighs.

Ana stepped out of her jeans and panties, and Christian caught her arms before she could lower them from where they were, over her head. "Stay like that," he whispered, tipping her chin back and then moving his lips in diligent progression down her throat, into the divot at the center of her collarbone, and then down across her chest until his nose reached the lace of her bra.

Her breathing caught, and Christian froze. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah." And then, voice needy, "Don't stop."

Christian laughed, quiet and exultant. "Be patient." And, without warning, he grasped her thighs and lifted her onto his hips. Her legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, her ankles crossing behind him, and Christian moved a hand underneath her to support her weight as he pressed his nose against the skin of her chest and inhaled deeply.

"You smell good."

Ana laughed throatily and threw her head back, giving him better access, and her hands came up to tug gently on his hair.

Christian carried her until they came up against the edge of the bed and lowered her onto it, following her body down to the sheets. He propped himself up on his elbows on either side of her torso, and his lips went searching for hers. He was just investigating the curve of her shoulder, on his way up, when Ana's hands stopped moving in his hair and her body tensed in a kind of anxious protest. Her head turned away and her shoulders curved in, excluding him. "Wait."

Christian froze above her and raised his head to look at Ana with urgent eyes. "Not ready?" he breathed, trying to keep his disappointment out of his voice so that she could give him a real answer.

"No," she shook her head, seeming as breathless as he. "I just thought you'd be undressed by now, too."

Christian smiled; that was easy to remedy. He rocked back onto his heels, straddling her. "Of course."

Her fingers twitched just slightly towards him, and Christian could see plainly that she wanted to take his shirt off, but Christian undid the upper buttons of his shirt swiftly and tugged it off himself before she could try to touch him.

He tried not to look at how she bit her lip in embarrassed disappointment, but it was impossible not to see, so he took her hands and guided them to the buckle of his belt. "Go ahead," he smiled reassuringly, and watched her face as she undid the buckle - fumbling only once - and gave him a tentative, pleased grin before sliding his belt out of his belt loops and then studying the black leather in her hands contemplatively. Guessing what she was thinking, Christian gently tugged the belt from her hands and dropped it to the floor over the side of the bed. "Not this time," he told her, not looking to see where the belt fell. "We'll use it another day. Tonight we're having regular sex."

"Not much about this is regular," Ana murmured, and Christian laughed and placed a hand over both of hers to move them to the zipper of his trousers.

"Keep going."

Her fingers moved impatiently, urgently, to undo his button and slide his zipper down, and when she was finished, Christian flexed his hips against the palm of her hand. Her hand jerked away as though it had been electrocuted, but a moment later it was reaching up to wrap around the back of his head and pull it down to hers. He stretched himself over Ana again, kicking his pants off as he did so, until every bit of his body was flush against hers, and hummed appreciatively as Ana's back arched to meet him. She shivered eagerly, the movement rippling through his body as well, and he kissed her boldly, intrusively, because now her body was as consenting as her mind.

Ana pushed her hips against his again, the gesture a calculated one this time, one calibrated to spur him onward. Christian reached around to the clasp of her bra, leaning forward until his lips were against the shell of her ear. "You're perfect," he whispered, words that he repeated again and again like a prayer as he opened her like the wet petals of a blossom and lost himself in her.

* * *

Fire was touching him. In the forbidden place. A soft, flickering point of fire, trailing its way over him. It went around and around, across his cheek, down his neck - just a warm glow, almost pleasant - down across his chest until it sharpened into an intolerable incinerating torch at his heart. And then the point would get bigger, losing intensity but growing in size, and make its way up to his shoulder, and along his arm until it got down to his hand and wrapped all around his fingers.

Dark. It was dark. And yet fire should be light. Where was it?

He looked around for it until he realized that his eyes were closed.

Fire. Fire was pain. But there was no pain, just heat.

A person. Not fire. Not pain. Somebody was touching him. Why wasn't he screaming?

_Shh, Christian. Shh, baby boy, Mommy's going to get you something to eat in just a minute._

Mommy?

No. Mommy also meant cold and hungry, but he was very warm, and not hungry at all.

"You're beautiful."

The somebody talked. The somebody liked him. Who? Elena?

No. She called him things like _strong_. Not beautiful. Elena knew better - she saw what he really looked like.

"You're fifty shades of beautiful."

_Fifty shades…_ he'd said that to someone, except he hadn't meant to. Who?

Anastasia. She was here. In his bed. She'd given herself to him. And she thought he was beautiful.

But she was touching him. No.

"Ana." He moaned his protest through sleep-muddled lips, and her hand abruptly stopped tracing circles on his chest.

Good.

Sleep receded, and Christian opened his eyes into Ana's. "Good morning." He smiled broadly at her, and was rewarded with one in return. "Did you sleep well?"

Ana nodded and added shyly, "You tired me out."

Christian's smile grew impossibly wider and there was a proud note in his voice when he approved, "Good." He threw a leg over hers, tangling them further in their sheets and in each other.

Ana exhaled in a slow, satisfied sigh and nuzzled into his neck, simultaneously placing her palm flatly over his heart.

It stayed there - not moving, mercifully - but Christian's chest tightened anyway and he locked his jaw and tried not to buck her hand off.

It took Ana only an instant to notice and then she was propping herself up on her elbow, placing a gap between them, immediately. Her eyes were large and apologetic, but also confused, and Christian knew there was no choice but to explain and trust her to accept it.

_Trust_. It was what he'd told her submission was for. It was the word she'd flipped and handed back to him reversed, the reason they were here, waking up in his bed together. It was a terrifying word. It was synonymous with _no control_.

So, instead of giving the explanation that every inch of Ana's expression was expecting, he nudged her gently with his shoulder and said softly, "You didn't have to move _so_ far away."

"Why?"

He knew that what she was asking was directed toward his physical response, not his verbal one, and it was possibly a word more frightening even than _trust_.

"I don't let people touch me." He'd never had to say it before to anyone except Elena. He always bound the subs' hands, and they'd never wanted to know why. It wasn't the kind of thing a submissive questioned. It was just part of the game.

Ana's eyebrows drew together in the center. "But the playroom… all those women… and last night, we-"

"Only some parts of my body."

He could see her lips twitching to form the word again, _Why?_ But they didn't. She restrained herself. "Okay."

Christian blew out the breath he'd been holding. "Is that a deal breaker?"

"No." Ana's answer was instantaneous, but then her brow furrowed, and she asked, "Should it be?"

"I think touching wouldn't be an unreasonable expectation to have for a normal person."

"But you're not normal."

"No."

Ana leaned forward and took Christian's face in her hands, looking at him cautiously first for permission. "Normal isn't important to me."

"You've seen my playroom," Christian groaned in frustration. "You know what I like to do to women, what I get my _pleasure_ from. How can you say that normal isn't important, when _this_ is what's on the other side of normal?"

"Because all through _this, _you've been careful and patient and considerate with me, when you could have anybody you wanted."

"I don't want anybody," Christian said, his voice grave. "I want you."

"Then have me," she whispered, so breathless and seductive that Christian closed his eyes again and kissed her long and exuberantly, and they began again.

* * *

**A/N:** My apologies to anyone who was expecting a thorough sex scene and didn't get one. Here are my thoughts on that, if you're curious about it: If I think that having a detailed sex scene is what best expresses and develops my characters at that moment in the story, then I have absolutely no problem with writing a sex scene. However, I'm not going to write about sex just for the sake of sex. In this particular instance, I think that going into more detail than I did would place the focus on the mechanics of sex, and not on the expression of love as a whole, which is what this was about for them.

That said, I'm aware that I'm not very good at writing sexy scenes, and I'm trying to work on it.

Anyway, I'd love to know what thoughts you had about this chapter, especially since it's not what I'm used to writing. Please review!


	21. Incentive

**Incentive**

"We should get up."

"Why?" Christian raised his head slightly from where he was sprawled next to Ana and looked at her lazily. "I'm not in a hurry. Are you?"

"No." Ana smiled and inched closer to him, laying her head on his shoulder. "But if we stay like this too long, you might have a hard time getting rid of me."

"I guess I'll get comfortable here, then."

Ana gave him a sweet, pleased grin, and turned her head to kiss his neck. "Is this okay?"

Christian nodded. "Don't be hesitant, Ana. I don't want you to have to think about where you can touch me. I'll tell you when you're crossing a line."

"But when I touched you before, you-"

"I know. I'll take care of it. I'm used to making sure people don't touch me in the wrong places." He leaned forward and kissed Ana's forehead, hoping she would accept that. "This is new for both of us, and we're just trying it out, remember. I want to make this as normal as possible for you."

"Except for the whole domination thing."

Christian grinned. "Do I sense a bit of desire for the _whole domination thing_?"

"Possibly." Ana cast here eyes down coyly.

"Yes, except for that."

She smiled with what looked like satisfaction, and then glanced up again, her expression curious. "How did you make sure the other submissives didn't touch you?"

Christian gazed down at her and watched her face carefully as he answered, "I bound their hands."

"Oh." Shock crossed Ana's eyes for a moment, but a moment later they became speculative. "With what?"

"It depends," Christian shrugged. "Why are you so curious?"

Ana flushed and dropped her gaze.

"Was last night boring for you?" Christian asked, his eyes twinkling mischievously in anticipation of her response.

"No! I just- I wondered-"

"I use handcuffs, usually," Christian answered, taking pity on her struggle to find words. "Silk cords for beginners." He hesitated, and then beamed wickedly as he added, "I bought cable ties with you in mind."

Recognition and recollection of his visit to Clayton's dawned slowly on Ana's face, and Christian couldn't help but laugh and lean down to kiss her. "I told you," he chuckled. "Unimaginable depravity."

"We'd just met! That was right after I interviewed you."

"I know." Christian's eyes burned darkly.

"Are we going to use them?"

"Miss Steele, are you growing impatient?" Ana began to look down, and Christian caught her chin and trapped it in place. "I think you are."

She nodded, breathless.

"You're very eager."

Another nod.

"You're going to have to learn to wait."

She squirmed and tried again to look down.

This time, Christian frowned disapprovingly. "Stop trying to hide yourself."

"Sorry."

"Sorry, Mr. Grey," Christian corrected, the words half instinctual as he saw her willingness and fell into a familiar role. "Say it."

"Sorry, Mr. Grey."

"You have a lovely body. Stop denying me of it."

"Yes, Mr. Grey."

"You're curious about the cable ties?"

Ana began to lower her eyes again, but caught herself at a look from Christian. "Yes, Mr. Grey."

"I like you curious and adventurous." Christian stroked his lower lip contemplatively. "But I need to teach you patience. You've put me in a predicament, Ana."

She bit her lip - intentionally, Christian thought - and it gave him his decision. "Now, what if the cable ties were a reward?"

"For what?" The heat from Ana's body was nearly palpable.

"We'll see how well you do with the new things as they come."

"And if I don't do well?"

Christian kissed Ana lightly, lingeringly, too briefly, and smiled. "Then we'll have to wait for the cable ties."

"That's not fair." Ana frowned.

"I don't want to wait either." He lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed her fingers one by one, his tongue tracing patterns across the sensitive pad of each digit.

"Then don't."

"Ana," he sighed, letting go of her hand and propping himself up on an elbow to look at her more directly. "This isn't just about delayed gratification and me having control. It's for your safety."

"What?"

"Cable ties are not comfortable or romantic," Christian reminded her sternly, "and you're not going to get any pleasure out of what I have planned with them if you're not ready for it."

"It sounds a lot less fun now."

"Good."

"I thought this was supposed to be for both our pleasure," Ana contested, pursing her lips at Christian challengingly.

Christian thought of Elena's belt and the lesson accompanying it, and he leaned down to kiss Ana until her lips softened into a smile beneath his mouth. "Pain and pleasure are the same thing. You can't have one without the other."

He could sense Ana's confusion at his words, could feel it in the way her lips hesitated for a moment, in the way her eyes flickered open, a question written in them. He slipped his tongue between her lips before her question could leap from her eyes to her mouth, and silenced Ana, kissing her until she was breathless and then swooping her into his arms and asking what she wanted for breakfast.

* * *

"I've got some work to do," Christian announced when Ana had eaten a sufficient portion of eggs. "Make yourself comfortable."

"I have to-" Ana paused and looked down, her hands twisting into each other at the hem of her shirt. "I, um, I have to go back to Portland and pack."

"Charlie Tango can get us there in plenty of time."

"Isn't that a bit excessive? A helicopter just so I can-"

"You're here now, aren't you?" Christian interrupted.

Ana nodded.

"And Charlie Tango is the most efficient way of getting back. Using your resources isn't being excessive, it's being smart."

"Okay."

"That makes you uncomfortable," Christian observed, turning in the kitchen doorway to regard Ana. "Why?"

"It's nothing."

"Ana, I want you to be comfortable here, with me." Christian watched the wry expression that flitted across Ana's face and wondered if she was thinking ironically of the playroom. "I mean it," he pressed. "Tell me."

"There's no need for luxury when I can do without it."

"I think the very point of luxury is that you _could_ do without it."

"I don't need it."

_Why did it matter so much to her?_ "Then do it for me."

"Fine."

"Good girl. I shouldn't be long. The television is at your disposal and Mrs. Jones will show you the library if you'd like."

"Thank you." Her words were shy, her shoulders curving inwards as they had the previous night, when she'd stood bashfully naked before him, as if there was any part of her that wasn't perfect.

"Look at me," Christian demanded, and he frowned when Ana's eyes darted flightily up to his. "No. With your whole body."

Ana's brow's drew together in confusion, and Christian rolled his eyes, striding across the room to her and rolling Ana's shoulders back, tugging her hands from where they were crossed over her belly and placing them at her sides instead. It was familiar, showing a woman how to arrange her body in a way that pleased him, and Christian might have felt more like a dominant in the moment if he hadn't been shaping Ana's limbs into the posture that _he_ took on when he wanted to exercise control in the playroom.

But this wasn't the playroom, it was his kitchen, and most submissives didn't think twice about accepting the ease that Christian's lifestyle had to offer - it was part of the deal, part of what it meant to care for a sub. Ana, of all women, needed to be cared for, needed to be protected from herself and from him and from others who were just as undeserving as he. So why was she the one who wouldn't let him take care of her?

"Stand like this," Christian ordered when he was satisfied. "I already spoke to you about carrying yourself as if your body was something to be ashamed of."

"Sorry," Ana stammered, and Christian's lips thinned in irritation.

"The idea is for you to be _more _confident, Ana," he griped. He leaned forward until his teeth grazed the curve of Ana's ear and growled softly, "_Do you need to be reminded that we are working towards the c__able ties?_" Christian could feel her body and energy change with those words, and he drew back to gaze sternly at her. "You need to be comfortable with your own body, first." He paused and frowned. "And for fuck's sake, stop biting your lip, or I'll tie you to the table here, preparation be damned."

"Better, Mr. Grey?" Ana asked, releasing her lower lip and running the tip of her tongue over it with what seemed to be intentionally seductive leisure.

"Marginally. Now let me work."

"Can I watch?"

"No." Christian frowned, already beginning to leave again.

"Why not? You ask me all kinds of things about my boring life and pretend to be interested."

"Because today's work isn't something I'd like to be doing, and the sooner I finish it, the sooner I can do something I enjoy." Christian beamed suggestively at her. "And I don't pretend, I find you fascinating. I'll be done within the hour and then you can interrogate me further, if you insist."

"Taylor," Christian called briskly on his way past the security office, "I need everything you got on Larron Voleur, and Welch should be here shortly. Take him up through the back so he won't disturb Miss Steele."

"Very good, Sir."

Moments later, the three were seated in Christian's office, Welch passing a manila folder across the desk to Christian. "He's a high-profile figure, finding photographs wasn't difficult."

"Good."

"May I ask what you're looking for?" Welch asked as Christian opened the folder and flipped past the general information in the front, hardly glancing at it.

"The location and the date of the university transfer matches with the time I was living in Michigan with my birth mother," Christian explained as he reached the pictures at the back of the stack of information.

"You think Voleur is your mother's partner?" Taylor asked, leaning over towards the photographs.

"He's the only person who would have the information he does." Christian glared quietly at Taylor and then across to Welch, daring each to show surprise at such a frank acknowledgement of his past.

"Excuse me, Sir, but do you think it likely that he would have studied religion?"

"I'm sure that the men at the _Ecumenical Theological Seminary_," - Christian sneered slightly around the name - "come as corrupted as the rest of us."

"The photographs. Do they match your memory?" Welch leaned forward to tap the top one - a shot of a tall man with a receding hairline and a magnificent smile that gleamed whitely up into Christian's face. The man was in a green park with sculpted shrubbery, holding up scissors and theatrically cutting the ceremonial ribbon of some sort of event, a group of workers applauding proudly in blue-collar ranks behind him.

Christian frowned, struggling. The man he'd known was always in the dark, face always in shadow, all made up of noises instead - of breathing, of beating, of fucking - never a visual presence.

Could it be that such a man looked like _that_ in the light?

"Mr. Grey?" Welch urged, his finger tapping against the photograph once more.

It was him. It had to be him. He was from Detroit. He was from Christian's past. The time and place was right. It made sense. And Christian knew, better than anybody, that a pretty face could be as heinous as any other. "Yes. It's him."

"How would you like us to proceed?"

"I'd like to meet the fucker."

* * *

**A/N:** I'm not even going to give excuses for why this update took forever, I'm just going to give a huge thanks to all of you who are still reading. You guys are fantastic. Please review!


End file.
